


Some things are worth dying for

by Nyx_21



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 05, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Clarke Griffin, Bellamy Blake is a History & Mythology Nerd, Bellarke AU Week, Developing Relationship, Endgame Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin, Episode AU: s04e13 Praimfaya, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Healing, Major Character Injury, Nerd Bellamy Blake, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Episode: s04e13 Praimfaya, Post-Season/Series 04 AU, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Praimfaya | Radiation Wave, Protective Bellamy Blake, Protective Clarke Griffin, Romance, Season/Series 04, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:20:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 66,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23728195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyx_21/pseuds/Nyx_21
Summary: “Bellamy?” Clarke whispered. It was easier to speak bravely in the darkness.“Yeah?” he asked, turning his head to look at her as if he was waiting for her break the silence .“I’m glad you stayed behind.”A beat of silence filled the room. When he spoke his voice was unusually soft and vulnerable. “Yeah?”Remembering his words from the day before, she gathered her courage. “There’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.”The room filled with words they couldn’t say. Minutes passed before he replied.“I’m glad I stayed, too.”---What if Bellamy stayed behind with Clarke when the rocket left?Or, Bellamy and Clarke finally have time to heal.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 103
Kudos: 500





	1. It might have been

> _“Of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are these, ‘It might have been.’”_
> 
> \- John Green, _Leaf Whittler_

The world returned to her in sensations. The agony of fabric against her cheek, the movement of her toes, free of her boots for the first time in weeks, the sound of ringing in her ears.

She tried to open her eyes, but all she could see was perceptions of light through a fogged glass. Nothing distinctive. Constricting the muscles of her calf, she felt as if the borders of her body might tear open, until her bones spilled onto the floor.

She could hear her lungs rasping with each breath. She held her fingers up to her eyes, still unable to see more than a shadow.

Was there a time before this pain? Who was she before she was here and now?

Through the haze of pain, she tried to remember.

There was wall of fire, the whole world was on fire. A boy with sad eyes stood before her in a space suit. There was a boy whose eyes sometimes made her think about a life that was more than just one impossible choice after another. The fear of another goodbye, maybe for good this time.

He disappeared. She was running for life, again. The world was ending, again. She was alone, the way she always supposed she might be. But where was he?

Her burning lungs heaved as panic grew in her chest.

“Bellamy,” she tried to say, but her voice was scarcely more than a croak. Was it strange that she remembered his name before she remembered her own?

There were others, too. They were her friends, and she had one last job to do before she could rest. One last job before she could close her eyes. He would take care of the rest of it. He would take care of them.

Memories gave way as the world came rushing back, and the pain increased its roar in sympathy. But, far worse than the sensation of her burned and irradiated flesh was the thought that somewhere overhead Bellamy and her friends might be dead, floating weightless in space.

_Calm down._

She had to know. Even if it cost her every last bit of strength, she had to know whether they were safe. But, as she tried to lift herself into a seated position, her body screamed in protest. Or perhaps she screamed.

_Lie down, Clarke._

_That_ was her name, she thought. And then the world disappeared again.

* * *

Days or weeks passed scarcely distinguishable. She burned, she coughed, she felt her blistered skin burst and knit itself back together. There was nothing in the world but pain.

She tried to form words, just to see whether her voice still worked. But all that came was a rasp. She coughed and tried once more to speak, eyes still shut against the world.

_Drink._

She felt the moisture pass from her lips, down her throat and into her burning stomach.

_Not too much._

Relief for a moment, and then blackness once more. She might have dreamed it, but for a moment she thought she might have felt a hand brush the hair from her forehead.

 _Sleep_ , the voice said, so she slept.

* * *

Memories played in her mind. But, honestly they were as real as if she was living them again.

There was the look on Lexa’s beautiful face as her blood seeped to the floor. There was Finn, tied to a post, with only one escape left for him. There was Wells, buried in cold earth far from home.

And there _he_ was. 

Covered in grime, he stood before her dressed as a Grounder. Strong and determined – and she was both shocked and utterly unsurprised that he had found her. For just a moment she forgot about Roan, and the Grounders outside, and the danger they were in.

Of _course_ he found her. He was stupidly heroic that way.

Then, he kneeled and looked at her with that half smile of his. He brushed the hair out of her eyes. She realized suddenly how much she had missed him and the thought surprised her.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said and she almost believed he could do it.

But then danger came rushing back they way it always did. One moment he was searching her eyes for something, and the next he was flat on his back with a sword to his throat and she was begging, her voice shaking and panic growing in her chest.

“Please don’t kill him.”

She was begging, and she could see she surprised both of them. Roan gave her a searching, wordless look and then he let Bellamy go. Not without wounding him, of course.

Long after they left that cave behind, she wondered what Roan had seen in her face that had stayed his hand when death was right in his reach. Grounders were not known for their mercy. Before the end came, she even thought of asking him what happened. But, every time she almost gathered the nerve, something would hold her tongue.

In honest moments, she wondered whether it was because she knew exactly what he had seen. The real question she meant to ask him was why it was enough to sway him.

* * *

His voice came to her from across the universe, familiar and strange both at once:

 _His longing eyes, impatient, backward cast  
To catch a lover’s look, but look’d his last;  
For, instant dying, she again descends,  
While he to empty air his arms extend_.[1]

With her eyes closed, she remembered him sitting by the campfire, telling stories of the death of heroes to the youngest members of the hundred. Sometimes she listened too, but only in snatches, only when there was a good enough reason to be standing by the fire during story time.

Octavia caught her once, running through inventory with her back pressed against the side of the drop ship, lost in the story of Orpheus who sang so sweetly that he won the favour of the gods. Lost imagining the heartbreak of a wife lost far too soon and a hero walking into the underworld to bring her home, bound only by one impossible rule: that he never look back at her.

Bellamy told the story well, his voice made for epic battles and heroic deeds. His eyes were as dark as the underworld, his skin glowing in the firelight. He looked like a tragic hero, and she knew that the children listening idolised him the way he did the Ancients.

When he leaned forward to end the story, they mirrored him. He paused only for a second before telling them his own ending to the story. In the version he told, Orpheus still stole a glance at Eurydice, but the fickle gods showed mercy. They were reunited and he sang songs about their love for the rest of his days.

“He changed the ending of that one for me, too,” Octavia said fondly, smiling when Clarke jumped.

“He probably didn’t want to give you nightmares.”

“Probably,” she chuckled, before cocking her head to the side to regard her brother. “But I think he prefers happy endings anyway. Bell’s a closet romantic, you know?”

“I find that hard to believe,” Clarke said, but she found herself following Octavia’s gaze.

She noticed he was smiling, and it occurred to her that this was his real smile. Not the smirk he usually offered her. Not the lascivious smile he still threw at his harem, even though it had been weeks since any of them last visited his tent. This was the smile he gave Octavia: genuine, warm, and just a little sad. As if he knew the mercy of the gods was even more unlikely than a man being so talented at an instrument that he could cheat death.

“He loves kids,” Octavia said, her face just a little too innocent.

Clarke turned to look at her friend. She never quite understood the love between the Blake siblings; none of them could. They were the only siblings Clarke had ever known.

The thought of that invisible string connecting them fascinated her. Was it normal to see the echo of one sibling in another’s face? It was not quite a physical resemblance; with two different fathers they resembled each other only in the most general ways.

But, working with Octavia in their makeshift medical bay in the repurposed drop ship and then watching Bellamy pore over the plans for more permanent campsite, there was a similar intensity, the same frown. They were both capable of perfect stillness in moments of threat, but restless and energetic in every other part of their lives. They ran, they jumped, they pushed through every obstacle.

Clarke wondered whether there had ever been a time when Bellamy smiled as easily as Octavia. Before his life filled with secrets that could get his family killed. Before every moment was life and death. A time before his heart hardened, before the death of his mother and the arrest of his sister. When he didn’t view tender-heartedness as a weakness.

“He loves kids because they remind him of you.”

At the look on her face, Clarke longed suddenly, painfully for an older brother who would protect her from the rest of the world. But, the closest thing she would ever have to a brother had been murdered by a scared child trying to slay her demons.

That voice once more: _Rest, Clarke._

* * *

Perhaps, she would die.

At this point, the thought did not scare her. Sometimes she felt this might be a welcome change.

Death had stalked them from the moment they arrived on this planet. The planet that shaped and shattered them. The planet where her best friend was buried. She had watched people stabbed and brutalised in the name of justice. She had snuffed out lives with abandon. She had not even spared the innocent.

She did not fear dying. There was a sense of inevitability – almost justice – about it.

But, her selfish heart wanted to know they were safe before she let go. If she died here on this brutal and beautiful planet, she wanted to know that they would live. She wanted to know he was there, watching over them and keeping them safe. She wanted to know that Bellamy Blake would live, would walk on the ground once more and do better next time.

She wanted to know he would live.

_You’re a fighter, Clarke._

She willed it to be true.

* * *

It was not so much that the pain went away, as it slowly receded enough that she could sit up and open her eyes.

It was a relief to find that her sight had returned to her. She no longer viewed the world through a membrane of radiation. Still disorientated, she peered around at her surroundings.

Somehow, she had managed to make her way back to Becca Pramheda’s laboratory, up the stairs and into the main office of the facility. Strange that she would choose the sofa, rather than one of the cots downstairs. Perhaps she had been too delirious to remember they existed.

A glance at her scarred hands told her she was still a way off fully recovered. But, she was alive. The night-blood had worked. In fact, it had worked miracles.

Experimentally, she shrugged her shoulders. A blanket usually used to mop up chemical spills slipped down her body and into her lap. She ran her hand over the red skin on her chest. It was as if she were recovering from a bad case of sunburn. The skin of her stomach, exposed to the cool air of the laboratory, was smooth and unmarred. Most of the damage had clearly come through the crack in her helmet.

She should be dead. For a moment, she stared around the room, marvelling at the fact she was still breathing. The room seemed smaller when Bellamy was here with her. That was the day he wrapped he held her and she clasped her arms around his waist.

In his absence, the room was austere and unfriendly, all glass and blue lights. Sterile. Impersonal. Much like Becca herself – or at least the artificial intelligence that had worn her face.

Outside this room was the rest of the lab. And outside that, the ruined world, irradiated once more. Back at Polis, her mother and Octavia waited underground. Overhead, beyond even dreaming distance, her friends were once more in their metal box in the sky.

Or perhaps they were already dead.

She pressed her face to her hands and tried to force the thoughts out of her head. Those last minutes before they left her to deal with the satellite dish were hurried and disjointed. Raven smiling at the thought of a spacewalk and Murphy struggling through the snow. And Bellamy, well, one moment they were side-by-side, ready to win or go out together, and the next he had slipped away from her.

Strange to think the last words she had spoken to him was simply: _Hurry_. As if time had ever been on their side.

On the beach, he had tried to tell her something in case they never saw each other again, but she had stopped him. She wondered what he was going to say out there on the sand with the world crashing down around them. She hoped he understood why she could not allow herself to hear him, to consider what he was to her.

Survival came first. They did what they had to in order to survive.

But, he was alive. He had to be.

Up in the stars, he was barking orders at Murphy and driving Raven crazy and encouraging Monty. And one day, five years from now, he would come back down to earth and they there would be time to tell each other all those things they’d left unsaid.

All she had to do was survive. Survive and trust that time would not do its usual work, dulling the sharp edges of memory and separating thought from feeling. She knew better now than to trust that anything was permanent.

There was no point worrying about the future. They just had to survive.

But first, she wept.

* * *

Emptied of tears, she climbed slowly to her feet, balancing against the arm of the sofa. She longed to rest on the ground, but she was afraid she would never get up again. She forced herself to stay on her feet, the blanket wrapped around her like a cocoon.

If she could just make it downstairs, she would figure out a way to get in touch with the ring. She could tell them she was alive and hear about their journey to space. Perhaps the years would not be quite so lonely if she could speak to them everyday.

She stared down at her feet, willing them to carry her just a little bit further.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Her head whipped up at the sound of his voice, thundering through the room which had seemed so empty only minutes before. There he stood, barefoot and exhausted, glaring at her. His hair was messy, the way it was when he spent hours running his hands through it.

The shock of seeing him stole the strength from her legs. She tumbled to the ground.

His expression softened at the sight of her gaping at him. He walked slowly, his hands held out as if to calm her. Her chest heaved as he crouched next to her. He reached out as if to touch her but seemed to think better of it.

“Clarke,” he said, the heat gone from his voice. “Are you okay?”

“But you’re,” she murmured, shaking her head even as her eyes devoured him. “You left. I saw – I thought I saw the rocket.”

He reached out tentatively, taking her hand and pressing it to his chest. He took in a long slow breath, and she stared at her hand pressed to the dark fabric of his t-shirt.

“Breathe, princess. Just breathe, just like that.”

His touch was gentle, but it was real and warm and impossible. Under her hand the steady drum beat of his heart said over and over: _I’m here, I’m here, I’m here._ [2]

She looked up to meet his eyes and any chance of drawing a steady breathe escaped her. Because, never in the time they had known each other had he ever looked so gentle and unguarded. The realization tasted like ashes in her mouth. She leaned back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“I’m dreaming,” she said softly. “This is a dream.”

Darkness filled her vision and he disappeared.

* * *

[1] Ovid, Metamorphoses, “Book 10: The Story of Orpheus and Eurydice”

[2] “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart: I am, I am, I am.” – Sylvia Plath, The Bell Jar. 

\--

I hoped you enjoyed Chapter 1 - reviews make me write faster!


	2. Souls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should go. Clarke would want him to go. He knew that at least was true. She told him to use his head. But, his heart still clamoured for attention.
> 
> Perhaps, just once, he should do what he wanted. After all, there was always a choice. Not always a good one, but a choice nonetheless.
> 
> “Yes,” he responded, stepping clear of the rocket. “It’s time for you to go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks you so much for the kudos and the kind reviews. I hope you enjoy the next instalment.

> _“Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same.”_
> 
> \- W _uthering Heights_ by Emily Brontë

The entire world had shrunk to the size of the air-tight door to the laboratory. Bellamy stood stock still, not noticing the chaos of Raven shouting orders and his friends packing supplies into the rocket. The space around him was still, as if the entire room were holding its breath, waiting for Clarke.

“Bellamy,” Raven said, and he could tell by her tone that it wasn’t the first time she had said tried to get his attention. “We have to go.”

“She’ll be here,” he snapped.

“We have to go _now_ ,” Raven repeated firmly. When she noticed his focus on the door remained unwavering, she grabbed his arm. “Bellamy, either we leave right now or we all die.”

“Get them on the rocket,” he said, reminded suddenly of his friends who were waiting for him in the rocket. He glanced back to where they gathered anxiously as their pilot cajoled him.

“Not without you,” Raven said stubbornly, her arms crossed.

“I’m right behind you,” he said, but he made no move to go.

“I can always tell when you’re thinking of doing something stupid and heroic.”

He chuckled at that, before sobering once more. “She just needs more time. We can give her that at least.”

“Time is the one thing we don’t have, right now.” Raven paused. “What would Clarke say if she were here?”

He glanced at her, something sad and rueful in his face. “She would tell you to get the others into the rocket.”

Concern and pragmatism battled for dominance within her, but eventually pragmatism won out as she turned to hurry to their friends. Raven knew leaving Clarke behind would be next to impossible to bear. But Clarke had made it clear Raven was to do the impossible today.

“Come on, Clarke,” Bellamy murmured as the building started shaking around him.

As the lights flickered, he heard Raven shout his name. They were all on board the rocket, ready to return to the cold vacuum of space. He was holding them up – risking their lives really. Tearing himself away from the door, he hurried up the stairs to the door of the rocket. Every few steps he strained his eyes to see even the suggestion of her form in the de-contamination shower.

When he reached the rocket, he paused. They were all in there – Echo and Emori looking incongruous in their space suits. Monty and Harper enveloped in a quiet that reminded him they were still mourning Jasper. It felt like a lifetime ago, but it had been mere days. Emori looked the most afraid, clutching Murphy’s hand desperately as he murmured soothing words to her.

Only Raven looked at him with something akin to suspicion. It was no surprise that of all of them, she knew him the best.

He could go with them to space, back to the hallways that had always pressed down on him wherever he went. On the Ark he’d lived a solitary life, one defined only by the words his mother had spoken on the day Octavia was born. _My sister: my responsibility._ He had always done what he had to do in order to survive.

Clarke would want him to go, Raven was right about that. For the life of him, he couldn’t understand what it was she saw in him that gave her so much confidence that he could ensure their survival. Whatever she saw in him, he suspected she herself had put it there.

“Bellamy,” Raven said firmly. “Get in the rocket.”

“We have to go,” Emori added, the fear palpable in her voice.

He took in the scene. The bright white of the rocket. Their space suits. The fear that was written on all of their faces. He should go with them. He should go with them and make sure Monty didn’t disappear into himself, that Raven didn’t drive herself mad with the weight of expectations, that Harper did not turn once more into a spectre.

He _should_ go. Clarke would want him to go. He knew that at least was true. She told him to use his head. But, his heart still clamoured for attention.

Perhaps, just once, he should do what _he_ wanted. After all, there was always a choice. Not always a good one, but a choice nonetheless.

“Yes,” he responded, stepping clear of the rocket. “It’s time for you to go.”

“Are you insane?” Echo asked as Monty stared at him with eyes that had known too much loss. When Raven started unbuckling herself from the pilot’s chair he sharpened his stance.

“Don’t do this,” Raven said desperately. “This is not what Clarke would want for you.”

“Raven,” he said, using the voice he used when he was training new members of the Guard. “Close the door.”

“This is suicide.”

“Close the door, Reyes,” Murphy said, his voice level.

“Shut up, Murphy,” she spat before turning once more to Bellamy. “If Clarke is out there, then Clarke is dead. And if you stay here, you’ll be dead too.”

Before Bellamy could respond, Murphy spoke once more. “Some things are worth dying for.”

There was a beat of silence, interrupted only by the wail of the sirens. In the moment of relative calm, he looked at them once more.

“It’s time,” Bellamy said, backing away from the rocket. He wasn’t sure whether they could hear him through the chaos, but he still whispered. “May we meet again.”

The rocket roared into space and disappeared, and he went back to waiting for her.

He wondered whether she might not come back, whether he would die here alone. Even in the grip of his dark thoughts, a strange calm settled on him. There was no going back. And even if he could, the smallest possibility of standing by her side while they both faced death was worth more to him than a long life spent alone.

As he stood, he wondered what she would say to him if she came through that door. She would probably be angry. But, he hoped that she would also be glad. Or perhaps she would never return and years from now – if he could survive that long – he would walk outside and find her bones.

It happened suddenly, the way all things desperately longed for always do. There was the sound of movement, the hiss of the de-contamination shower, and then the door opened.

His heart lifted, until the inside door opened and she stumbled into his arms, convulsing. As he lowered her to the ground, her skin was already beginning to blister like Monty’s hands, the crack in her mask a jagged line. He fumbled with her suit, trying to free her, trying to touch her as if he could slow down the radiation with his hands.

As he pulled off the mask, she seemed to notice for the first time that she was cradled in his arms. She smiled up at him, her eyes clouding.

“Bellamy,” she breathed.

“I’m here,” he said, his eyes stinging. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”

“You’re here.”

“Yes I am, and you’re going to survive.”

She reached up a limp hand, as if she meant to touch his face, but her strength failed her before she could make contact. “I’m glad I got to see you once more before - ”

“Stop saying goodbye,” he snapped. “You don’t get to die on me, Clarke. You’re going to be fine.”

“You’ll look after me,” she said softly, before her eyes rolled back in her head and her heart stopped.

And for a full minute, until he managed to restart her heart, she died in his arms.

* * *

This time, when she awoke, she could hear someone moving around the room. For a moment she lay still, eyes closed, bracing herself for disappointment. She was delirious when she woke, so her brain gave her reassuring illusions. It was just a dream.

“Just a dream,” she said, tears forming at the corner of her eyes – and even she couldn’t tell whether it was the pain of loss or the pain of her injuries that prompted her.

From the darkness, a familiar voice filled the room once more.

“Princess,” he said, kneeling by the sofa. “Are you with me?”

She opened her eyes and there he was. Not quite believing it, her eyes traced the familiar landmarks of his face: the scar on his top lip, the constellation of freckles, the unruly hair curling at his forehead. When she reached out a hand to touch his face, he flinched slightly. She pulled her hand back without comment, propping herself up on one arm.

“Are you real?” she asked.

He offered her a crooked smile. “Last time I checked.”

She tried to sit up, but he gently pressed her shoulders back to the sofa. The feeling of his hands on her skin reassured her; if he was a ghost then so was she. Together. That was their deal.

“This is impossible,” she murmured, her head aching and filled with cotton. But, as the confusion of sleep lifted, and she realised they were still in Becca’s lab, she suddenly frowned at him. “Wait, Bellamy – how is this possible?”

He sat back on his haunches, one of his hands rubbing the back of his neck guiltily.

“I, uh, I stayed behind.”

Forgetting about the pain of her injuries, Clarke lifted herself up once more to stare at him incredulously. “You stayed behind?”

He shrugged. “Someone has to keep an eye on you.”

“You let the rocket leave _without_ you? Are you insane?”

“You know, you really should lie down. You’ve been out of it for days.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” she spat. “Tell me you didn’t make the colossally stupid move of letting a rocket take off without you.”

“If I’d gone with them, you’d be dead.”

“You could have died,” she shouted, her heart clenched at the thought of the danger he had put himself in.

“Well, I didn’t,” he said, a stubborn sort of look on his face.

“You still might,” she said. “This planet is uninhabitable. We don’t know what’s even left out there. Or how long we can stay here. You could die from exposure the minute we open the door. You could die, Bellamy, you do realize that, right? You could die.”

Somewhere along the way, her voice had lost its fire. By the time she said his name it was no more than a whisper. The thought that she would be forced to watch him die, to watch that strong unbending body of his fading away to nothing as radiation did its work, seemed unspeakably cruel.

“What’s life without risk?” he said softly, the ghost of a smirk on his face.

In normal circumstances, they would have been standing toe to toe shouting at each other at this point. But now, alone in the world, he reached out gently and pressed a cool hand to her forehead. When he frowned she knew she was feverish. Somehow his hand did not move from her face.

“This isn’t a joke,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “You should have left me behind. You should have gone with them and left me here.”

There was a beat of silence. Their eyes met, her chest heaving and his hand cradling her face.

“I knew you’d say that,” he swallowed. “I just – I couldn’t do it.”

“You could die,” she whispered, feeling her loose grasp on wakefulness loosening.

Her eyes were mostly closed when he responded in a voice that was mostly a whisper: “Some things are worth dying for.”

* * *

She woke up to find him standing at the doorway of the office, holding a medical kit in front of him like a shield. It was strange to seem him look nervous, but the determination in his eyes was familiar. In spite of herself, she almost chuckled at the sight of him staring her down like she was a Grounder army.

She recalled suddenly the sight of him standing in their first campsite, by the drop-ship, convincing a group of children that they might be warriors. As he turned to face each one of them in turn, he seemed to pull the greatness out of them, to warm their chests with belief that they could fight and win.

She wondered at the injustice of the Ark, that anyone could consign Bellamy Blake to being a janitor. Perhaps that was the secret of the ground; it showed each of them who they truly were.

“We need to change your dressings.”

She nodded, noting for the first time the careful handiwork of dressings around her neck and down her shoulders. Her skin was tight as it healed. With some effort, she pulled herself into a seated position, suddenly aware she was wearing only her underwear.

Wordlessly, he sat behind her as she lifted her tangled hair from her shoulders. She was too weak to be embarrassed. For a moment he just sat there, assessing where to get started.

The feeling of his breath at the point where neck met shoulder sent an embarrassing shiver down her back. He didn’t comment as he peeled off the bandages. His hands were gentle. It occurred to her that while she was floating in and out of consciousness, he was attending to her.

“It worked,” she said, her voice croaking with disuse. “The night-blood worked.”

He made a sound of assent but didn’t speak. He was silent as he worked and she wasn’t surprised. His words before she lost consciousness sat heavy between them: _Some things are worth dying for._ She hoped and didn’t dare to hope he was talking about her.

He worked silently. It was always this way with Bellamy. A moment of exposure – of what he would have called weakness – was always followed by a bone deep silence. He was not someone who gave pieces of himself away very easily.

When he finished with her back, he crouched down in front of her, gesturing for her to lie down once more. Wordlessly, he reached for her hands, rubbing a healing salve into the back of her hands. Her hands were small in his. It was strangely reassuring.

She peered down at him as he worked. He was clean and clean-shaven. It occurred to her that she had never seen him shave. There was so much about him she didn’t know. It had been less than a year since to drop-ship landed, although it felt much longer. Strange to think how quickly and completely he had crashed into her life. How someone she had never met a year ago could become so integral to her life.

Sometimes she forgot that they had never met on the Ark. Her memory wrote him into long nights passed playing chess with Wells. But, the truth was Bellamy would have hated her in principle and she would never have looked past his bravado. She would have condemned his mother for Octavia; there was a reason there were rules. Resources were too precious to squander. It was the earliest lesson they learned in space.

The thought that she may never have gotten to know him threw her. Filled suddenly with gratitude, she turned her hand to grasp his wrist, startling him with the contact. He stared for a moment at her hand on his arm. Her skin was healing by the hour, but he seemed surprised to see her hand moving of its own volition.

“Where do you sleep?” she asked gently.

He looked up and met her eyes. He looked like he was bracing himself for a fight.

“I sleep here, with you,” he said, gesturing at the red chair in the corner of the room.

She noticed a stack of books on the ground and one volume left open on the chair. She couldn’t make out a title, but she knew by sight it was a classic. Probably something Greek or Roman. Long walks side by side through endless woods had taught her about his love for the ancient world. Of course he had raided the bookshelves.

The chair itself was not much of a bed, particularly for someone as tall as Bellamy. She worried her lip, picturing him hunched over, worrying over her as she writhed in pain. How long since he had slept in a real bed? Clarke released his hand, sensing his discomfort. She knew when not to push him.

He brought her clothes, which she put on gratefully. They were like the clothes he wore: simple, comfortable, clearly designed for exercise. He turned to face the wall as she pulled them on. When he turned back around, he looked passed her shoulder, avoiding her gaze.

“I didn’t want to hurt you by putting them on when you were asleep,” he said stiffly.

She nodded; it had never occurred to her that he would have any motive other than her wellbeing. She tugged at the sleeve. The fabric was soft even after all these years.

“You should get a cot from downstairs,” she said softly. “You look exhausted.”

He nodded, but sat once more on the red chair that was within reaching distance of where she lay. He picked up the book, turning it over in his lap. He did not look at her before he started reading; she suspected he might have lost his nerve if he had.

“Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns driven time and again off course,” he read.[1]

Listening to the rhythmic bass of his voice, she drifted once more to sleep. A part of her wished he would tell her his own version – as vivid and exciting as the real thing, but where a man could find his way back to a home still waiting for him, as perfect as a painting.

* * *

The nightmares returned. Or, perhaps they had never left. But this was a new one.

Bellamy slept on the sofa back in Arkadia as she agonized over the list of one hundred survivors. In the dream, he was as peaceful and still as he had been on the day itself. While he slept, she watched the rise and fall of his chest and tried to imagine not doing everything she could to save him.

He woke up, offering her that half-smile that seemed to belong only to her.

“Princess,” he greeted.

But the smile faded from his lips as suddenly he gasped, unable to breathe. He reached out to her for help as she sat impassively at the desk. He writhed on the sofa, mouthing her name but unable to form sounds. His skin blistered as the life drained out of him. All the while, she sat at the desk and hummed that same lullaby she sang to Atom before driving a knife into his throat.

She woke shaking, her breath coming out in gasps. He appeared at her side in an instant, kneeling by her head, smoothing her hair and scanning her for injuries.

She looked up at him, her eyes streaming with tears. Overwhelmed to find him alive and breathing and standing right in front of her, she reached forward and wrapped her arms around his middle. She cried great heaving sobs onto the front of his t-shirt.

Surprise made him hesitate, but a moment later he wrapped his arms around her. He held her gently, as if she might bruise. With her ear pressed to his chest she could hear his heartbeat.

“We have to make you a night-blood,” she gasped between sobs. “We have to do it right away.”

“We will,” he murmured gently, his hand tracing reassuring circles on her scalp. “We just need you to get a little stronger.”

“We have to,” she insisted, calming at the feeling of his fingers in her hair.

As she calmed she grew bashful about having her arms wrapped around him as if she might drown if she let go. Reluctantly, she loosened her grasp on him. Perhaps she imagined the brief hesitation before his arms released her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away from him and wiping her eyes. “It was a bad dream. I’m fine now.”

He nodded, climbing to his feet and making his way through the darkened room to the cot she had finally convinced him to set up in the room.

“Thank you,” she added as an afterthought, embarrassed by her tears. He paused at the sound of her voice, but didn’t turn around.

“Goodnight, Clarke.”

* * *

There was so much to regret. During the weeks she spent away from the camp, drowning in guilt and self-pity, she measured her deeds – the good and the bad. By any estimation, she found herself lacking. Leaving him behind to look after their people was just the latest example. It was during long nights musing that she realised how little she deserved the extraordinary friendship he offered her again and again.

“But you worry about him more,” Lexa had said. From the beginning, Lexa had asked her what he was to her, this champion who stood between Clarke and danger. It was hard for her to understand the bond between them. Even when she fell in love with Lexa, there was a part of her that always belonged to him. Her eyes always sought out his in a crowded room. Her heart lifted when he entered a room, as if to tell her that now they could begin whatever serious discussion was at hand. It was there when she forgave him for any transgression. She felt it in her hands sometimes, when they itched to draw him.

He was the one truly good thing in her life. But, even she didn’t know how far she would go for him until she trained a gun on him.

He stood there, at the door to the bunker back in Polis, determined to save his sister. They were at odds, again. Underneath the raw panic she felt, she was almost angry. How could he put her in this position? How could he make her choose? She could see from his face that he was angry, too. Angry that she conspired with Jaha. That she cut him out the equation, yet again.

They locked eyes for a moment, and she wished he were the sort of person who would lose his nerve at the sight of a gun. But, of course, he just stood taller.

“Please,” she said, her voice cracking with emotion. They both watched her hand shaking.

“You’re going to have to make it a kill shot. It’s the only way you’re going to stop me.”

The decision should have been easy; what was one life in exchange for continuity of the human race? On the Ark, they were raised to know how to make exactly that calculation. It should have been easy. If it were anyone else, it would be easy.

But her hand was still shaking and she could scarcely see him through her tears. She lowered the gun and he turned around to get back to the task at hand. He had no idea what it cost her to realise in that moment that Lexa was right.

She was a hypocrite to tell him to think with his head. When the future of humanity was in the balance, her traitor heart had easily traded all their lives for his.

* * *

He was gone when she awoke and for a horrible moment she thought she might have dreamed him after all. But, within minutes of sitting up and staring around her for any evidence of him, he strode into the room.

“Rise and shine, princess,” he called as he made his way to her.

He presented her with spoon and what looked like a small bowl of oatmeal. She took it gratefully, mainly out of relief, rather than a desire to eat. The mere thought of chewing anything made her feel nauseous.

Bellamy loomed over her as she moved her spoon around the bowl. He stared pointedly until she sighed and lifted a spoonful to her lips.

“You’re hovering.”

“I’m keeping an eye on you,” he retorted. “You need to get your strength up.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she teased, as she swallowed the tasteless oatmeal.

He smirked, satisfied that she was at least attempting to eat. “No way am I as scary as your mother.”

Any sign of his previous mood had dissipated. He was mercurial, prone to quick tempers and somber moods. It was strange that someone so changeable could be the most reliable presence in her life, even if they spent half their time arguing with each other. She had never fought with anyone as much as she fought with him. Sometimes she suspected he enjoyed it.

By some unspoken agreement, he stayed close throughout the day, sitting on the floor, sometimes even leaning against the sofa where she lay. She quizzed him on what he had discovered about the laboratory. They had six months of food, maybe more if they were careful. The laboratory was well stocked; there were clothes and medical supplies.

She insisted he eat when she did. He ate his share on the floor, close enough that he could grab her ankle if he wanted to. His long limbs folded surprisingly, and she was reminded that he was used to cramped quarters. She was tempted to reach out to touch his hair, which now reached his shoulders. She pushed the thought from her mind; there were more important things to focus on.

“Have you been able to contact them?” she asked seriously.

Bellamy stiffened at her words. They had not spoken about the rocket since she regained control of her senses, as if the topic too big for them to hold on to. A part of her worried that if they spoke about it she might realise he regretted his choice. There was something strange about his manner. Even though they were closer to each other than ever before, he seemed as remote as a satellite.

A muscle worked in his jaw. “Not yet.”

“And the bunker?”

“Radio silence,” he said, his voice tight. Her thoughts wandered to Octavia, prowling around the hallways of the bunker, trapped once more underground.

“She’ll be okay. You taught her well.”

He scoffed, avoiding his eyes. “I taught her not to get caught. I taught her to stay quiet and hide under the floorboards.”

“You taught her more than that, Bellamy. You taught her how to be strong and brave and stubborn. She’s going to need to be all three down there.”

“She shouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Clarke bowed her head to acknowledge his words. Perhaps this was the explanation for his decision; in the end he couldn’t bear to be a world away from his sister. He lifted his head to meet her eyes, and at last he seemed fully present in the room.

“She won’t be alone,” she said calmly, surprised by her own conviction that everything would work out for the best. “Raven will figure something out. She’ll contact us, and then with her help we can figure out how to talk to Octavia. And until then my mom will look out for her.”

She could see the exact moment when he decided to believe her. His entire body loosened as he wrapped his arms around his bent knees.

“Clarke Griffin is an optimist,” Bellamy chuckled. “No one would believe me if I told them.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said, offering him a shy smile. “I just think my luck might be turning.”

His lowered his gaze at that, but she saw the small smile he tried to hide.

* * *

“I’m ready,” she said, determined not to back down.

“You don’t have to rush this,” he said sternly, his arms crossed.

“You know I’m going to try either way,” she reasoned. “So either you help me now or you’ll be picking me up off my ass in a few minutes.

He rolled his eyes, mumbling about her stubbornness and how doctors made the worst patients. She reminded him she was not actually a doctor, but as usual he ignored her. He never once let Abby tend to his wounds in Arkadia; he always waited for her to do it. She scolded him for stubbornness, but mainly because she was embarrassed by how much that meant to her.

He reached down both hands to her and she offered him a triumphant grin as she wrapped her hands around his forearms. It took a while for them to get her onto her feet and even when she was standing, he carried most of her weight. Despite his earlier complaints, he murmured encouragingly as she shuffled across the room. Every few steps he would make them stop while she caught her breath.

When they made it to the door of the office, she grinned at him as she leaned against the wall. She knew with perfect certainty that if she so much as swayed he would catch her and carry her back to the sofa, her dreams of freedom dashed.

He stood with his hands in his pockets, standing closer than was strictly necessary. “So where are we going on this stroll, princess?”

“Is there a bathroom?” she asked hopefully, eyeing his wet hair. “Maybe a shower?”

“You’re not strong enough to stand in the shower, Clarke,” he frowned, seriously.

“I could lean on something. Or sit down.”

“No way.”

“You could help me.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You want me to help you shower?”

“I-I mean you could stay nearby … in case I get light-headed,” she stammered.

“So you want me to watch you shower,” he said, a grin spreading slowly on his face.

The heat in her cheeks was enough to power the lab and possibly the rover. She shook her head ruefully. “Is there any chance you’re going to forget about this conversation?”

“I don’t know,” he mused, as they continued their progress across the floor. “Is there any chance you’re going to stop propositioning me?”

She laughed, swatting his arm. She had missed the banter between them. Things had been serious for so long, she had almost forgotten how much she enjoyed talking to him. It had been a discovery for both of them back at the drop-ship; they had fun together. It was not the sort of fun most of their friends would understand. It was in the smallest moments between them, when he would say something sarcastic while they were bent over a map and she would bark with laughter.

It was around that time she realised the identity he had cultivated when they landed was mostly for show. He was not actually someone particularly used to being surrounded by people. He was not used to letting people get close to him.

She had just about lost her strength by the time they reached the bathroom. But, the sense of accomplishment was worth the exhaustion. Finally she would be able to wash the grime from her skin. But, she felt Bellamy hesitate to release her from his grasp.

At the sight of the concern in his face, she squeezed his arm. “I’ll be careful, I promise. And I swear I won’t try to do anything crazy. Like bathing.”

When he released his grip, she offered him a fond but exasperated smile.

Dreaming of clean skin and rinsed hair, she made her way into the small bathroom. Really it wasn’t much bigger than a closet, but like everything in the lab it was startlingly modern and clean. She eyed the shower longingly, but knew that Bellamy would have a conniption if she so much as attempted it.

Resigned, she made her way to the basin. Unthinkingly, she glanced in the mirror, before stopping short at the sight of her face. While the right side of her face had largely healed, the left from the bottom of her eye down to her chin, was still raw and scarred.

Regarding the patch of wounded skin, she remembered that when she first caught sight of praimfaya raging towards her, she turned her face away. Not that it had been enough to ward off the radiation wave. For the first time, she wondered what state she must have been in when she staggered into the lab. Judging by this – and the speed with which Luna had healed – she realised that the radiation burns must have been considerable. Clearly the level of radiation she had been exposed to was severe. Probably catastrophic.

It had not occurred to her since waking to wonder what she looked like, stumbling through the airlock and collapsing on the ground. There had been no hint in Bellamy’s expression that anything was different about her appearance.

The night-blood was doing its work, but it was taking time. It was foolish to be bothered about her appearance when she was lucky to escape from her life. She told herself that even as tears formed in the corner of her eyes, and she pressed her fingers to the edges of her wound.

“They’re getting better every day.”

She looked up to see him reflected in the mirror. It was still strange to see him in casual clothes; she had grown used to him in Grounder furs and warrior leathers. He looked younger, and even in the harsh electric lights of the bathroom, he was so beautiful it was hard to look at him. Even when she couldn’t stand him, she had thought about how she would draw him.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, cutting her eyes away from her face and instead focusing on washing her hands. She picked up a towel from the neat stack by the basin and set about cleaning her exposed skin. She cursed the tears blurring her vision.

She felt rather than saw him come closer, his warmth on her back. He stood behind her and reached around her to turn off the faucet, bracing his arms on the sink so they cocooned around her. Their eyes met in the reflection.

“You were unconscious after the decontamination shower,” he said softly. “I had to get you out of that damn suit. It was taking too long. I thought you were dead and I was just - ” he swallowed and he was close enough that she almost felt it. “Your skin was so blistered that every time I touched you peeled it off. I thought you were dead. I thought I’d stayed behind just to bury you.”

He closed his eyes, taking in a shuddering breath. She reached down and placed her hand on his, where it rested on the counter top.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” she said softly.

“I’ve only been afraid like that once before – at that party when they found out about Octavia,” he said softly, opening his eyes once more. “But then you got better. You’re still healing, Clarke. Your scars are healing. You just have to give them time.” He paused for a moment, his voice so serious she almost believed him. “All they need is time.”

“What if they never go away completely?” she asked, before cutting her eyes away once more, feeling too exposed by her question. She braced herself for him to pull away or make a joke. But the expression on his face was open and honest – no trace of a lie upon him.

“Then every time I look at you, I’ll remember how you sacrificed yourself to save all our lives. You’re a hero Clarke.” He offered her a crooked smile. “And heroes need cool scars.”

She felt a flare of affection for him so intense it took her breath away. Her hand tightened on his wrist and she used it to pull his arm across her body. She felt him tense and then relax, pulling her back against his chest and burying his face in the crook of her neck. The stood in that embrace for a long time, eyes closed, unused to having a moment to simply be.

When she turned around in his arms, he didn’t hesitate to draw her closer. He gave his comfort freely and without reservation. Like always.

* * *

That night, Clarke stared at the dark ceiling of the office, wondering how it was possible to be both exhausted and wakeful at the same time. From her surreptitious glances, she knew he was also awake, staring at the ceiling with one arm bent under his head.

“Bellamy?” she whispered. It was easier to speak bravely in the darkness.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning his head to look at her as if he was waiting for her break the silence .

“I’m glad you stayed behind.”

A beat of silence filled the room. When he spoke his voice was unusually soft and vulnerable. “Yeah?”

Remembering his words from the day before, she gathered her courage. “There’s no one I’d rather be here with than you.”

The room filled with words they couldn’t say. Minutes passed before he replied.

“I’m glad I stayed, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Homer, The Odyssey.


	3. Between the Shadow and the Soul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish he could have met you,” she said.
> 
> His fingers paused for a moment, before continuing their journey through her curls. Her hair would be a mess in the morning, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.
> 
> “Parents never liked me much,” he said, his voice little more than a rumble in his chest.
> 
> “He would have liked you. Probably before I did.”
> 
> She glanced up to see his eyes were closed and his voice distant, as if he were scarcely holding onto consciousness. “Everyone liked me before you did.”
> 
> “You won me over eventually.”
> 
> “It’s the hair,” he mumbled, almost inaudible. “Everyone falls for the hair eventually.”

> _“I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,  
>  In secret, between the shadow and the soul.”_
> 
> \- Sonnet XVII, Pablo Neruda

She woke in the night, surprised to find that she had slept at all. The ground had taught her many lessons, and the most important one was this: killers have ghosts that follow them silently wherever they go. And at night, they speak.

For the few hours she managed to sleep, she was back in the mountain. Those dreams were the worst: the dead children with their paintings on the wall, Maya dying with gasping breaths, all of their friends tied down like animals. Her hand and Bellamy’s on the lever. Everything that came next.

She hurt him when she left him at the gate at Arkadia. She could see it in his face, and even then she knew how hard it was for him to trust someone the way he had let himself trust her. After all, it had been her who convinced him in the magic of those words: _if you need forgiveness, I’ll give you that._ For him to say those words and for her to walk away was cruel.

The fact was she would have stayed. A part of her knew that if she took a moment longer, looking at him begging her not to go, she would give in. She kissed his cheek and turned her back because she knew she needed to leave.

Sometimes the soul needs time alone to heal. Or so she had thought.

Staying away had done nothing to ease her guilt. She had to make room for it instead. The nightmares were the price she paid.

Her breath slowed down to normal at last, and she peered through the darkness at Bellamy’s cot. Finding it empty, she frowned and climbed slowly to her feet. Legs unsteady, she walked out of their room and onto the catwalk outside.

She found him sitting at the top of the stairs, his head cradled in his hands. He was sweaty, chest still heaving after one of his punishing workouts. There was nothing unusual about Bellamy testing the limits of his body. The only difference was usually he did it during the day.

For a moment, she watched him rubbing his eyes, lost in thought. A strange sort of feeling came over her, at once oddly heartbroken by the sight of him alone in the middle of the night and overcome with gratitude that she got to see him like this. With his head bowed, she could see the point where his hair ended and his t-shirt began. When she was a little girl and she had a nightmare she would rest her forehead on her mother’s shoulder and Abby would rest her hand right at the point where shoulders started. She would run her hand up and down her neck until she fell asleep again.

She wondered what Bellamy would do if she reached out to touch him there, whether he would be comforted or confused by the gesture. She decided tonight was not the moment to find out.

“Can’t sleep?” she asked softly, taking a seat next to him on the stairs. Their knees brushed lightly as she matched his posture and he turned his head to face her, his cheek resting on his palm.

He attempted to muster a smile and failed. “Did I wake you?

“No,” she said, returning his half-hearted smile. “Too many memories.”

He nodded as if he understood exactly what she meant. He always seemed to. They sat in comfortable silence.

“Did you think about the ground, up there?” he asked, lifting his head with some effort and resting his forearms on his thighs. It was not quite comfortable on the stairs, but she found herself settling into his side.

“Of course,” she chuckled, leaning closer into him to take in some of his warmth. “I covered my cell walls with pictures of the ground when I was in the sky box.”

“Did you ever think it would be like this?”

“No,” she said. “I never thought we’d have to fight so hard to survive down here. I thought this was where we were meant to be.”

“Maybe it _is_ where we’re meant to be,” he said, his voice solemn. “Maybe the fight is all there is.” He paused, his eyes lowering once more. “Sometimes I think it’s all I am.”

She peered at his profile, noticing the lines of exhaustion, the red of his eyes. She had told him back at Arkadia that she would bear it; it was as if she had never met Bellamy Blake. As if he were the sort of person who would ever go along with that. He carried the world on his shoulders.

“I don’t believe that,” she said.

“You give me too much credit.”

“You fight because you want to protect people,” she said. “You do the impossible. I’ve asked you to do the impossible again and again.”

He shook his head, his first instinct to assuage her guilt. “Clarke, that’s not what I - ”

“It’s true, though,” she said. “You know it’s true.”

“Clarke, listen to me,” he said, turning to face her. He placed a hand on her knee without seeming to notice. “Everything I’ve done, I did it because _I_ wanted to. You didn’t force me.”

“You did it because you’ll do anything for people you care about,” she said, reaching out to clasp his hand where it sat on her knee. “To protect them. But you know what?”

“What?” he asked, his eyes unreadable in the low light.

“Our fight is over,” she said gently. “At least for a while. For the first time, we can just be.”

He considered her words, his thumb tracing patterns on the back of her hand mindlessly. “I may not be good at that.”

“Me neither,” she chuckled. “But at least we can try. Together.”

He searched her eyes for a moment, before nodding to himself. She offered him a smile before tugging him to his feet. Not letting go of his hand, she led him back to the office. As they crossed the threshold, she squeezed his hand, smiling when he squeezed her back.

 _I’m here,_ she said without speaking.

 _I know_.

* * *

Clarke woke up from a restless sleep to find herself still on the sofa. For a moment, she blinked to get her bearings, noticing at once that she was far warmer than usual.

Turning her head slightly, she glanced at Bellamy still asleep at her back. From this position, she could feel each his chest rising. Their hands were still joined, balanced on her hip.

Was it her idea or his to return to lead them both to the sofa? She remembered him making as if to move back to his cot, when she held onto his hand. He looked at her for a long moment in the darkness. Then, as if he had done it a hundred times, he led her back to the sofa, lay down, and pulled her after him.

It should have been strange to arrange themselves together, to leave scarcely any space between them. But of all the feelings and sensations that overwhelmed Clarke as she took her place in front of him, strange was not even close to the top of the list. When she tugged his arm around her and nestled into the warmth, all she could feel was glad.

They slept that way all night. Until Clarke opened her eyes and the possibilities of night gave ways to the realities of morning. For a moment, she considered fleeing to the bathroom. But, when she made to move, he buried his face in the space where her neck met her shoulder and breathed.

For an agonizing moment, she wondered what he would say to her if he were awake and aware of their compromising situation. Every inch of her back was pressed against him. The morning was quiet except for the sound of their breaths in unison. Would he be embarrassed? Annoyed? Or would he feel the same anticipation in his stomach that she felt whenever he moved slightly in his sleep.

“Go back to sleep, Princess,” he murmured, his lips ghosting on her shoulder as he spoke. He squeezed her hand again, the way he had the night before. And something in her chest tightened.

Wordlessly, she pulled his arm tighter around her.

* * *

Back in Arkadia, she worked with her mother in the infirmary out of habit more than anything.

Things were tense between them when she came back from the mountain. She knew her mother wished that she could just forget about her friends who were trapped there. A part of her resented Abby; it was a reminder of that touch of ice in her veins that had prompted her to turn in Clarke’s father to the Council.

But, sometimes when she watched Abby suture a wound or calm a mother out of her mind with fear over a feverish child, she felt that familiar admiration for her mother. Her experiences on the ground only reinforce that there was plenty she could learn from Abby. That is, if Bellamy Blake ever gave her a moment’s peace.

At least once a day, he would come striding into the infirmary with an injured guardsman, or to complain about the latest training mishap, or even to yell at her for asking Kane to make sure he actually slept during his time off.

This time, he was already there when she arrived, sitting on the edge of a patient bed with an unreadable look on his face. It was the sort of look that put her on edge; she preferred when he was fiery and unpredictable. This forced calm could only mean one thing.

She glared at him, scanning him for injuries. “What happened?”

“It’s nothing,” he said.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “If it were nothing you wouldn’t be here.”

“Kane overreacted,” he shrugged. At the sight of his grimace, she hurried forward, standing in the space between his legs. He still wore his bulky guard jacket, and when she reached forward to push it from his shoulders, he flinched.

She offered him her sternest look. “What. Happened.”

“He got stabbed in the shoulder,” Abby piped up from the corner of the room. Clarke jumped; she hadn’t even realized her mother was sitting there, leaning back in her chair with her glasses perched on the end of her nose.

Bellamy studiously avoided Clarke’s eyes, as she looked at him incredulously.

“You got _stabbed_ ,” she spat, before nodding to herself decisively and tugging off his jacket. Her hand came away bloody.

“I _barely_ got stabbed. I was wearing my jacket and Davies can hardly even lift a sword, let alone stab someone with it.”

“Marcus said they were doing hand-to-hand combat training,” Abby commented, her voice casual.

“And Andrew stabbed you,” Clarke repeated incredulously, helping him remove his jacket. To her relief, she found the jacket had indeed taken most of the blow; his shoulder was badly bruised, and a small puncture hole would need stitches. There was gauze pressed to the wound. “At least someone knew what they were doing.”

“I packed the wound,” Abby said. “But he wouldn’t let me do the sutures. He said he’d wait for you.”

Clarke glanced at his face. There was not a trace of embarrassment on his face as she reached for the scissors to cut away the rest of his shirt. As she worked, she murmured curses under her breath and tried to ignore the way his breath hit her shoulder as she leaned over his wound. The thought of him choosing her over her mother pleased her a little too much, even if the thought of having to stitch him up – again – made her stomach sink.

“This is going to hurt,” she said regretfully, peering down at his skin with the needle in her hand.

“Just get on with it, Clarke,” he said gruffly. He flinched only slightly as the needle passed through his flesh. As she worked, the world melted away, but she could still feel his eyes tracking her progress as he peered down with interest at the wound.

“Thanks, Princess,” he said, when she was finished. Casting aside the tattered shirt, she helped him carefully into his jacket.

“You’ll need to have the dressing changed,” she reminded him, helping him pull up the zipper.

He rolled his eyes. “I know.”

“You need to come back for that. And you can’t teach hand-to-hand until the stitches come out.”

“I’ve got it, Clarke,” he said, almost gently as she helped him to his feet. Their eyes met for a beat, and Clarke felt a familiar zip of electricity.

She cut her eyes away, stepping back to give him space. “I can’t believe you got stabbed. Especially by Andrew.”

“I can’t believe it wasn’t you doing the stabbing,” he commented with a half-smile, already hurrying to the exit – no doubt to go right back to training the new recruits.

In spite of herself, she chuckled as he disappeared through the door. Turning around, she found to her surprise that Abby was once more regarding her closely.

“What?” she said, shifting under her mother’s scrutiny.

“Nothing,” Abby said quickly, glancing down at the list of inventory on her clipboard. “It’s just the way that boy looks at you.”

“That boy has a name,” she said, before realizing exactly what her mother was implying. “And he doesn’t look at me.”

Abby offered her a sly smile. “He looks at you.”

“Well we were having a conversation, Mom,” Clarke retorted, scanning her copy of the list with just a bit too much focus. “It’s considered polite to make eye contact.”

“Not just today,” Abby said pleasantly, clearly amused by her discomfort. “He always watches you. You move; he moves.”

“We work well together,” she said, hoping by some miracle that Abby didn’t notice the flush creeping down her neck. “We’re a team.”

“Is that all there is to it?”

Clarke frowned at her mother. “Why don’t you just say what you’re trying to say, Mom?”

“I’m not saying anything,” Abby protested, holding her arms up in surrender. “I’m just telling you that boy – _Bellamy_ – stares at you whenever you walk by.”

Clarke decided it was probably best to focus on the task at hand and not engage with her mother. She knew from experience that when Abby was in this mood, the taunting could last for an hour. Despite her embarrassment, a part of her had missed the gentle teasing that had always been part of their relationship. Laughter had been lacking since her father’s death.

“He’s good looking,” Abby commented. “Bellamy, I mean. His sister, too. Don’t you think so?”

Clarke felt red blooming on her cheeks. “I mean, I suppose, from a clinical point of view,” she stammered. “Yes. I suppose they’re both attractive. Clinically speaking.”

Abby made a noncommittal noise of agreement, seemingly studying the medical chart closely.

“Oh and Clarke?” she said, not even glancing up from the page. “You look at him too. Clinically speaking.”

Later, she swore the pen flew in her mother’s direction of its own accord.

* * *

For a moment, she sat on the edge of the sofa and peered down at Bellamy. Asleep, he looked young and unguarded. She reached out a hand to smooth back his hair from his forehead and he frowned in his sleep.

For three nights now, as Clarke gathered her strength and the last of her scars faded, they had fallen asleep together on this sofa. His cot lay cold and abandoned in the corner of the room. But neither of them packed it away.

There was always a plausible excuse for finding themselves falling asleep together The first night, they were poring over maps of the laboratory, calculating the distance back to Becca’s mansion. The second, she had asked him to keep reading from _The Odyssey_. It had seemed perfectly natural to curl up next to him where he was lying on his back. It was a matter of practicality that to hold the book up, he had to wrap his arm around her.

 _“Few sons are the equals of their fathers; most fall short, all too few surpass them,”_ Bellamy read, before pausing for a moment.

She lifted her head from his shoulder. From this angle, she could see the shadow on his jaw line. She wondered suddenly who had taught him to shave. To stand up when he was beaten and never give anyone the satisfaction of knowing they had defeated him. Perhaps it was his mother; he had never mentioned his father.

“Did you know your father?” she asked, before she lost the nerve.

He swallowed. “I think my mother knew who he was. But I don’t think he was a man worth knowing.” She waited for him to speak again, content just to listen to his breath rising and falling.

“So you take after your mother, then,” Clarke said.

She felt him playing with her hair as he spoke, wrapping and unwrapping one of her curls around his fingers. “My mother taught me everything I needed to know about being a man by reading me books about heroes who never gave up. She taught me everything I needed to know.”

She ached with sympathy at the pain in his voice. “I wish I had known her.”

She could feel his smile. “She would have gotten a kick out of the Princess of the Ark slumming it with Delta station trash.”

“I wasn’t such a princess,” she protested, twisting in his arms so she could offer him a scandalised expression. “I’m a convicted felon, remember?”

“Solitary confinement at that – it was quite a scandal. It really took the heat off the disgraced guard with the secret sister living under the floor.”

She lowered her head to his chest once more, lost once more in that moment by the airlock. One moment her father was standing by the door and the next he was shooting out into space. Now she knew that from Earth it would have looked like a star falling from the sky.

“I’m glad some good came of it,” she said softly.

“Hey,” he said gently, squeezing her shoulder. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” she sighed. “Sometimes I’m almost glad he never saw the ground. Never saw what I had to do. He would have been disappointed in me.”

“I’m sure that’s not true.”

“No, it is,” she said thoughtfully, biting her lip. “He always saw things in black and white. I used to be like that, too. But now all I see is grey.” For a moment, she let herself remember his face, his laugh and his smile. “Sometimes, though, I think of everything he missed. Everything he never got to do. All the people in my life he never met and who never met him. He would have loved Raven.”

“Well, it helps not to know her that well.”

Clarke laughed. Even though she couldn’t see his face, she could almost feel his half smile. His fingers were buried in her hair again, the hypnotic movement on her scalp loosening her tongue.

“I wish he could have met you,” she said.

His fingers paused for a moment, before continuing their journey through her curls. Her hair would be a mess in the morning, but she couldn’t find it in herself to care.

“Parents never liked me much,” he said, his voice little more than a rumble in his chest.

“He would have liked you. Probably before I did.”

She glanced up to see his eyes were closed and his voice distant, as if he were scarcely holding onto consciousness. “Everyone liked me before you did.”

“You won me over eventually.”

“It’s the hair,” he mumbled, almost inaudible. “Everyone falls for the hair eventually.”

She listened to his breath evening out until she was certain he was asleep.

“It’s not just the hair,” she whispered, before resting her head on his chest once more. Sleep came for her soon after, bringing with them gentler dreams than usual.

* * *

They fell into an easy routine. Because they were who they were, even at the end of the world, they made a plan first.

They would see out six months exactly where they were. By the time the food supply dwindled, they would decamp to the mansion for new supplies and stronger shelter. This would buy them some time until the radiation eased enough for them to figure out their next steps.

Even when they were both nightbloods, radiation at the level that currently roiled outside would incapacitate them for days. The key was to ensure they weren’t incapacitated before they could get to shelter. Even with perfect planning, they both knew they might perish on the way.

Then there was the issue of the nightblood. Bellamy was staunchly against the idea of a blood marrow transplant. To his mind, a blood transfusion that would see him to the mansion – that _might_ see him to the mansion – would suffice.

“We don’t have anaesthesia, Clarke,” Bellamy spat. “You’re asking me to hold you down and extract your bone marrow. Like the Mountain Men.”

“It’s nothing like that – and I’m not _asking_ ,” Clarke responded, her arms crossed from her stool at one of the long tables in the lab. It was the closest they had come to one of their blazing rows since before Polis. “A blood transfusion won’t be enough.”

“You’ll survive a blood transfusion. We know that for sure. You may not survive the extraction.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.”

“Well I’m not,” he said, pacing the length of the table in frustration. “You don’t get to decide everything, Clarke. Not anymore.”

Clarke held up the most recent readings of the carnage outside. It would be a miracle if there were anything left when they finally went outside. “If you just thinking about it logically, you’ll see this is the only choice that makes sense.”

He slammed his hands on the table. “I swear to god, Clarke, if you ask me to use my head one more time - ”

“I’ll stop telling you the day you start using it.”

At that, Bellamy turned on his heel and prowled down to the ground floor and disappearing from view. Judging by the sounds below, he had decided to channel his anger towards the punching bag downstairs. Then even those sounds stopped and everything was silent and tense under the force of his anger.

Clarke was determined not to go searching for him. She was right and they both knew it. But, she respected Bellamy’s need to lick his wounds. They would never survive like this if she crowded him.

It was the longest they had spent apart in weeks. Clarke catalogued and rationed their food and continued monitoring the radiation levels outside. But still, Bellamy avoided her. She ate a paltry dinner of canned protein – Bellamy being the far superior cook – and still he avoided her.

She climbed onto the sofa, alone. She attempted to read, alone. She attempted to sleep, alone. But, without the reassuring warmth of his body sleep was impossible.

He came back after midnight, treading lightly on his bare feet. He stood over her, uncertain as she lifted herself onto her elbow to peer up at him. He just stood there, as if searching for his words.

“I thought you were going to sleep downstairs,” she said softly.

“I tried,” he admitted, sheepishly. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Neither could I.”

Something loosened in his bearing at that. But still, he stood uncertainly before her, his hand on the back of his neck. “Clarke, listen - ”

“No,” she said softly. “We don’t have to talk about it now. Let’s just – let’s go to sleep.”

The relief on his face was visible. Slowly, as if afraid a sudden movement would shatter the peace, he lay down next to her. His movements were hesitant, as if he was unsure whether he was allowed to touch her. They faced each other in the darkness, searching for familiar features in the dark room.

“You scare the hell out of me sometimes, Clarke,” he whispered.

“You scare me too.”

The admission lifted some of the tension. They fell asleep that way, separated by a battle line neither would cross. But by morning, they were tangled up in each other: his chin on her head, her hands on his back.

* * *

Using the shower in the lab for the first time was one of the best moments of her time on earth. Somehow the hot water had held on, and even though there was no soap, it was possible to feel clean for the first time in what felt like years.

Bellamy insisted on sitting right outside the bathroom door, calling her name every minute or so to make sure we was still conscious. It was ridiculous. It was completely overbearing. And what’s worse, it made her irrevocably associate the shower with Bellamy Blake.

Back at Arkadia, Bellamy had worked with Jaha to build the outdoor rainwater showers. Clarke would watch them – the former Chancellor and the man who had tried to kill him – poring over plans, gathering and smoothing wood, overseeing the construction site. When they finished almost everyone who had helped with the work took a turn under the uneven jets, whooping and laughing. But, Bellamy and Jaha simply stood and admired a job well done, before going their separate ways.

One morning, she was looking for him. Or rather, her mother was looking for him and thought Clarke would know where to find him. It was long before most people awoke, so she assumed she would him patrolling the wall, or gathering wood or any number of other important tasks that filled his mornings while everyone else slept.

She was surprised, then, to see the unmistakable figure of Bellamy Blake standing under the spray of the shower he had helped build. He towered over the fabric barrier wall, leaning his arms against the side of the structure and looking out at the mountains, the sky and the morning mist.

Something about the sight of him, standing there with his back to the camp – to Clarke herself – as the water rolled down his bare back and the mist rolled down the mountain stopped her short. She longed to draw him. Longed to trace the line of his spine and way his back moved with his breath.

She was frozen, imagining how she would capture the moment in charcoal, when he turned around and caught sight of her.

“Morning, Princess,” he called casually, turning off the spray and reaching for the towel that was draped over the side of the wall.

“Good morning,” she said stiffly, forcing herself to stop considering the merits of charcoal and bronze. She walked over to the shower, hoping her face betrayed none of her fascination.

“Enjoying the view?” he asked, with a smile. At her frozen expression, he gestured out at the landscape beyond the words.

Shaking her head as if to clear it, she forced herself to focus on the moment at hand. “My mother wants to see us.”

His face immediately turned serious. He grabbed the towel and pair of trousers that he had thrown over the side of the shower before stepping under the spray.

“It’s peaceful,” she said, peering over at the view as he pulled a shirt over his head.

“For a while,” he said. “But it never lasts.”

She nodded, and they walked together into battle once more.

If sometimes, in another time and place, the memory his shoulders returned as she stood under the deliciously warm jets, well that was just a secret between her and Becca Pramheda’s shower.

* * *

The first time she noticed it, she was sitting on the opposite side of the sofa as he read aloud from the _Meditations of Marcus Aurelius._

Earlier that day she had found some blank pieces of paper and she sketched him as he read and pretended not to notice. She balanced the papers on a thick book on her knees, her feet tucked partly under his thigh.

His freckles were difficult; too vital to leave out, and too subtle to note too explicitly. She could draw him a thousand times and still find room for improvement. The light was off, but from this angle it was possible to show the way his hair curled at his forehead.

His voice trailed off for a moment, and she glanced up at him. He closed his eyes, pressing a hand to his forehead.

“Bell?” she asked, her sketches forgotten on her lap.

He opened his eyes, his eyes focused on her once more. “Sorry – head spin. Where was I?”

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” he said, waving a hand dismissively before searching for his place in the book. “I just got dizzy for a second.”

She frowned and a thread of cold fear entered her stomach. But soon enough his voice was steady and certain as he shared the wisdom of the philosopher forced into battle.

Later, as they settled into sleep, he asked her, “How is my picture looking?”

“Not quite right,” she murmured. “You’re hard to get right and I’m rusty.”

“Don’t throw it out,” he said, his breath hot on her neck. “It’s the first picture you’ve done of me. I want to keep it.”

She shifted in his arms, the sensation of his breath distracting. “It’s not even close to the first picture I’ve drawn of you.”

He seemed suddenly alert. “You’ve drawn me before?”

“Dozens of times.”

She could almost hear him turning that information over in his head. “Will you show me?”

“I gave most of them to Octavia,” she said. “Before we left.”

She felt his arms tighten around her. His hand settling just above the elastic on her tights, brushing her bare skin in a way that was maddening. He was always tactile, but she had noticed recently a change in him. A loosening of his usual restraint. Surely the fact she was willing to share a bed with him made it clear to him that she welcomed his presence.

“Most of them?” he wheedled.

She bit her lip, painfully aware of the progress of his finger stroking across her skin. “There are a couple I didn’t want your sister to see.”

He chuckled ruefully against the skin of her neck. “Well now you have to show them to me.”

“We’ll see,” she smiled.

“I can be very convincing,” he said, his hand slipping a little higher on the plane of her stomach. She willed his hand to move even further across her skin. To finally bring this thing between them into the open. After all, friends did not hold each other in their sleep sleep. Friends did not dream of each other in the shower. Friends did not stay behind while rockets shot into the atmosphere.

Sometimes the words were on the tip of her tongue. In moments like this, she wondered how he couldn’t hear everything within her shouting for him to touch her. But, each time she came close, the thought of what she might lose held her tongue.

Regardless, she wondered that he couldn’t hear her heart beating in her chest.

“I don’t doubt that,” she whispered. “Goodnight, Bellamy.”

“Goodnight, Princess.”

* * *

It happened again.

They were sorting through the lab equipment, choosing things that might be useful to take with them. One moment he was adding something to the ‘take’ pile, and the next he staggered forward.

He caught himself on the railing, just as she pressed her hands to his biceps, attempting to ground him as the dizzy spell passed.

“Easy,” she said, aware suddenly that if she let go he would trip over again.

“Can’t keep your hands off me,” he said, with a cocky grin.

“Shut up,” she said, despite her relief at seeing the return of his bravado. She peered into his eyes, holding her finger up and gesturing for him to track its movement with her eyes. He went along with her, with a look on his face that made plain that he thought she was being ridiculous. Reluctantly, she released her grip on him and let her hands fall to her waist.

“Did I pass the test?” he asked, a gentler smile on his face as he took in her concern. He was always surprised to see evidence of her fretting over him.

“You should lie down,” she said, reaching forward to hoist his arm around her shoulder.

“I’m fine, Princess,” he said, waving off her help. “I must have stood up too fast.”

“Maybe that means you should sit down again.”

He rubbed the back of his neck irritably as he made his way back to the workbench, Clarke on his heels. “We’ve got things to do,” he said, gesturing at the pile on the table and taking his seat once more.

She affixed him with a stern look. “We have absolutely nothing to do.”

For a moment, stubborn gaze met stubborn gaze. He really was the most impossible, infuriating man she had ever met. And yet, if it had been her having a spell of dizziness, he would have thrown her over his shoulder and carried her to bed without even pretending to pose it as a question.

It was just like he had said in the throne room at Polis. He told her he would keep her safe. He always knew what to say to her, and she never seemed to know what to say to him. He always pushed back against her concern. He never took care of himself.

She sighed, sinking to the stool next to his. He was surprised but the change in her bearing. And more surprised still to find her reaching for his hand, clasping it in both of hers.

“You know,” she said softly, afraid to meet his eyes and focusing instead on his hands. They were strong, capable – just like the rest of him. There was a burn on the back of his hand, which had never properly healed, scars that he probably didn’t remember getting. “Lexa told me once that love is a weakness.”

She glanced up to meet his eyes. Her words echoed between them – _I was being weak._ A look almost like understanding passed over his face. Understanding and something that looked almost hopeful, as if he thought he might understand what he was seeing, but scarcely dared to believe it.

She reached out to trace the line of his jaw and his eyes closed at the contact. It was easier to speak freely when his eyes were closed.

“Sometimes it feels like everyone I love on the ground dies,” she said, her hand cradling his cheek. “I won’t let it happen again.”

His eyes opened at that, his eyes smouldering with emotions. It reminded her of waking up in the woods and seeing him looking at her through the fire. The same intensity was written across each gesture. He sat perfectly still as she ran her hand through his hair, and it came to rest on his shoulder. They were close enough that she could have rested her forehead against his. The expression on his face was almost pained and he squeezed their hands that were still joined on the table.

He looked as if he might want to say something. But when she shook her head, he fell silent. “I can’t lose you, Bellamy. I wouldn’t survive it.”

“Clarke,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. Then, he reached forward placed his free hand on her cheek, a perfect mirror of her pose. He searched her eyes, running her thumb across the plane of her face, tracing the outline of her bottom lip. “Please tell me if I’m misreading this - ”

All she could do was shake her head minutely, melting towards him as he leaned forward. But, before he could bring his lips to hers, she pulled away, staring with dawning horror at his face. For a moment, he looked confused – almost hurt – until he felt a strange sensation trickling down his face.

She sat, frozen in place as he frowned and swiped the back of his hand under his nose. When he looked down at it, he was surprised to find blood on it.

Then, in slow motion, he toppled from the stool and onto the ground. As he blacked out, he heard Clarke calling his name over and over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A cruel note to end on, I know. I hope you enjoyed the chapter - the next will likely be the last in this little extended one-shot. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and left kudos.


	4. Written on the Body

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “All I wanted to tell you was that everything that’s happened, everything we’ve lost, every impossible decision we’ve had to make, the end of the world – all of it was worth it. Because I got to meet you.”
> 
> Suddenly her arms were around his neck and her head pressed against her neck. She felt his pulse next to her cheek, racing like her own. She pulled him close, until every inch of her was pressed against him. 
> 
> “Was that what you were going to tell me at the beach?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.
> 
> “Something like that."

> _“Who taught you to write in blood on my back? Who taught you to use your hands as branding irons? You have scored your name into my shoulders, referenced me with your mark. The pads of your fingers have become printing blocks, you tap a message on to my skin, tap meaning into my body.”_
> 
> \- Jeanette Winterson, _Written on the Body_

The first picture she drew of Bellamy Blake was only a silhouette.

She didn’t realize she was drawing him at first. She drew the dropship, the forest, the gates, and, outside the gates, a lone figure guarding the camp. A protector – no more than a symbol, she thought.

She found herself hunched over the paper perfecting the lines of the figure’s back. A figure with hair that went everywhere and yet somehow fell exactly where it was supposed to. A protector with powerful shoulders always bracing for impact. A stranger scanning the forest for danger.

The fire burned down to almost nothing. But still she drew, frustrated for some reason that she could not capture the likeness of a person who was no more than a figment.

“Intense picture,” Jasper said, appearing at her shoulder. She offered him a distracted smile, half fond and half focused on the task at hand. It was always like this when she drew; she could lose hours on the smallest detail.

She cast a critical eye over the picture balanced on her knees. “It feels like it’s missing something.”

Jasper peered down at the picture, a look of intense focus on his face. It was one of his most endearing qualities: how seriously he took the smaller things in life. If Clarke’s picture was missing something, then he would focus all his attention on helping her fix it.

“His gun,” Jasper said. “You need to add his gun.”

“Whose gun?”

“Bellamy would never guard the camp unarmed,” he said, nodding as if he had solved a complex equation. “You need to add his gun.”

She blinked down at the picture, bewildered by the concept she could inadvertently draw the one person in the camp she could hardly stand. “That’s not Bellamy.”

“Okay,” Jasper said, drawing out the syllables. “Then you need to draw a gun for Bellamy’s twin brother. Also called Bellamy.”

With that, he offered her a serene smile, crossing the campsite to find Monty. She stared down at the figure of the arrogant ass who had somehow invaded her picture.

For a moment, she considered putting the picture away, or throwing it into the fire. Mostly because she was afraid he would see the picture and leap to a conclusion she was not comfortable with naming. But even as she entertained the thought of destruction, her hand started drawing again – as if against her will.

Regarding the image after ten minutes of effort, she realized Jasper was right. Bellamy _did_ need a gun. The picture was complete at last and ready to be shared with nobody.

That might have been the end of it. But the next morning she sat on the same log and watched Bellamy stride across the campsite, purposeful and focused as always. She watched the fluid movements of his arms as he helped himself to a cup of rainwater. She watched him flash a smile to one of the girls that always followed him around the campsite. She saw the way the smile disappeared a moment later, replaced by that familiar look of grim determination as he met Miller at the gate to hear the night report.

He was doing nothing in particular, but leaning against the gate and carrying the world on his shoulders.[1] Clarke realized for the first time that his was face that demanded to be drawn. Regardless of her feelings about him.

She began the second picture she ever drew of Bellamy Blake that night. And then again. And again. Until the drawings became intentional, a welcome reminder of someone important in her life. But somewhere along the way, that secret quality returned. A furtiveness born of the knowledge that her obsessive drawing was strange. A bit too intense for a platonic friendship – and in that way the same as every other facet of her friendship with him.

He entered her art the way he entered her life. Slowly, then all at once.[2]

* * *

Clarke sat on the ground her legs crossed. One hand was buried in his hair and the other clasped his hand. He lay where he fell. A thin clear tube filled with black liquid sat coiled on his chest.

She watched her blood pass through the tube and into the crook of Bellamy’s arm. As she waited, she imagined the blood forming a protective line around his brain, his heart, every one of his organs. She would give him every drop if she could guarantee it would keep him alive long enough for her to kill him herself.

He must have known something was happening, she mused as she watched his unconscious face, slack and unguarded. He must have had headaches and felt unexplained weaknesses. She pressed her hand to his forehead and found his fever had already gone down.

When he collapsed, the world narrowed to a single point. There was nothing that mattered except making sure his eyes opened again. She tore apart the lab looking for supplies. She examined the wound on his head. Her hands were shaking. It took her two tries to find a vein in his arm.

For an hour she sat, watching him twitch and moan as the nightblood did its work. She sat and she watched him and her heart ached.

Every now and then during their time on the ground, she would watch him and the feeling would come over her all over again. _He_ would happen to her all over again.

There were a hundred tiny details that made him who he was. But, how could she explain the strange alchemy between them? The fact she knew down to her bones that he would always be there for her, no matter what happened between them or even what never came about. The fact she knew that he understood her on the same profound level she understood him. The miracle of knowing there was someone on this forsaken planet who would stand or die by her side.

A beautiful friendship; that was the heart of it. But, then there was all the rest. Her fascination with his freckles, his eyes, his lips. Her heart beating as she watched him push his body to breaking point. Her heart breaking as he held her in her arms and she wondered whether they would ever find a way to be close enough.

It would be a fitting fate for her to realize what she wanted, only to lose it forever. There were people on the ground who believed she deserved that and worse. But still she hoped for mercy. Even if she didn’t deserve it.

* * *

On the Ark, the Blake family was too busy surviving to worry much about how any of them was feeling.

Aurora and Bellamy were made alike; they did what they had to do to protect Octavia. In his mother’s case, it meant giving herself to guards who could warn her about spot inspections. For Bellamy, it meant leading a solitary life. Never letting anyone get too close.

One night he came back to their quarters after a gruelling training session. He was in his guard uniform, feeling for the first time the pride that came with knowing that he was the best. He pushed himself harder than any other recruits. He was more serious. For the first time, it occurred to him that he might actually _be_ something.

His mother sat at the table sewing, watching him as he leant over Octavia and kissed her on the forehead. Aurora regarded him for a long time as he sat opposite her and picked up a jacket with a torn shoulder and started mending it for her. She taught him well; his work would pass for her own.

Her hand on his was a surprise. “You should get some rest. You have an important job to do.”

“All our jobs are important.”

She chuckled at his matter-of-fact tone, before sobering once more. “You’re special, Bellamy,” she said, she said gently. “You always put your whole heart into what you care about. But sometimes I wonder whether all this is fair on you. The secrets, the lies.”

“I’m fine,” he said firmly.

“You deserve better.”

“Octavia deserves better.”

“You both deserve better than me,” she said. She was changeable. Prone to dark moods. He took after her that way as well.

“No we don’t,” he said, turning his hand and clutching hers. “You take care of us.”

“No, _you_ take care of us. I just hope that one day you find someone who takes care of you.”

“You’re all I need,” he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You and O. None of the rest of them matter. Keeping you both safe is all I care about.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be,” she said, and he had no answer for her.

The conversation moved on to the books they read, as it always seemed to. That night his mother talked about Achilles, about hidden weaknesses and pride coming before the fall. They talked long into the night for the first time in a long time.

Within weeks his mother would be dead. His sister would be thrown into jail. He would lose everything that mattered to him. And he would know it was his fault.

Then came the ground – and everything that came next. For the first time, he felt the way those heroes must have felt, setting out for strange lands and battling monsters.

In the early days, before protecting her became the central focus of his life, Clarke had irritated him. She always pushed against his boundaries, didn’t know the meaning of the word no. He had dismissed her as privileged and out of her depth.

He never really _saw_ her in the early days. There was no hint of what she would come to mean to him.

In fact, he remembered the first day he saw Clarke Griffin for who she really was: in the woods, with a knife pressed into Atom’s neck, singing the sweetest lullaby he had ever heard. She ended his suffering gently, and he saw for the first time what she really was: a goddess, stepped right out of the pages of his favorite books.

Sometimes, on long nights guarding the camp he would catch sight of her moving at the entrance of the drop ship and let himself imagine which goddess she most resembled.

His first thought was Diana, who guarded the cross roads and ushered people into the underworld. Sometimes Clarke would ask him to come with her for long walks in the woods to find medicine. He would stand guard as she hunched over a promising plant. He would steal glances at her in the dying light and her hair would glow like the moon.

Long nights spent bent over maps, tracing contours and laying out battle strategy made him reconsider her. Perhaps she was Minerva, the goddess of wisdom and warfare. She tamed the horse Pegasus and protected Odysseus on a long journey home. He watched council members – decades her senior – nod in response to her well-reasoned arguments and felt a flare of pride when Kane took her orders.

It was only on Polis, standing in the throne room clasping her hand, as she faced down the greatest threat they had ever known, that he realized his guesses were wrong. As he watched her reassuring her mother, he remembered the words the queen of the gods said in the _Aeneid:_

> _But if my forces are not enough, I am hardly the one to relent, I’ll plead for the help I need, whatever it may be – if I cannot sway the heavens, I’ll wake the powers of hell!_

There was only ever one goddess she could be: Juno, the queen of all the gods and patron goddess of the Roman Empire. Mighty, unrelenting, and proud. And he would consider himself lucky to spend the rest of his life worshipping at her feet.

* * *

He awoke to find himself staring at the ceiling of the laboratory. He lay on the ground and tried to get a measure of his injuries.

But, before he could do more than reach up to press a hand to his aching head, Clarke filled his vision – her face pale and pinched with worry for him. She looked into his eyes, and he smiled fondly at the line in the center of her forehead – the one that always appeared when she concentrated intensely.

“Bellamy,” she said, her voice urgent and fearful. “Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” he said, reaching up a hand to touch her hair, loose over her shoulders. “I can see you.”

“How do you feel?”

“Mainly embarrassed,” he said with a wry grin, lifting himself up with some effort onto his elbow. “I’m usually more suave than that.”

“No you’re not,” she said, letting out a noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

He noticed for the first time her red eyes, the sheen of tears still visible in her eyes. Frowning, he reached out to touch her face. For the first time, he noticed the tube connecting his arm to hers. He made to pull out the needle, but she stilled his hand with hers.

“You’ve given me enough Clarke."

“No,” she said vehemently. “It’s not nearly enough.”

“Clarke - ”

“You need your strength,” she continued, ignoring his attempt to interject. “Because tonight you are harvesting my bone marrow and we are making you into a nightblood.”

His eyes narrowed as he sat up. “I thought we talked about this.”

“We’re done talking about this,” she said stubbornly, sitting on her shins until they were eye to eye.

“You don’t get to decide - ”

“Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. “I _do_ get to decide. I won’t watch you die. Not when I can save you.”

“I don’t want to do that to you,” he said, ducking his head. But she wouldn’t let him hide from her. She placed her hands on either side of his face, lifting his head gently until their eyes met.

“This is not something you’re doing to me,” she said. “This is what I want. You here with me. I can’t lose you. I won’t.”

He looked dazed at her words, as if on some fundamental level he couldn’t believe she was saying these words to him. Searching about for something to do, he reached down to pull out the needle from his forearm.

“Bellamy, ” she protested.

“If we’re doing this,” he said gravely. “Then you need your strength too.”

Relief flooded her as he pulled the needles from their arms. Catching sight of her medical kit, he reached for a bandage, pressing it the crook of her arm. She took over, their hands brushing as she took the bandage from him. With her free hand, she reached out and pressed her forehead to his. She fancied she heard his breath hitch at the contact.

“Thank you for saving my life,” he whispered. “Again.”

“Just returning the favor,” she said, closing her eyes and enjoying the feeling of his hand on the back of her neck, his breath mingling with hers between them.

* * *

Her father used to say there were moments that changed everything. Or rather, moments when something in your vision shifted and you saw clearly for the first time.

Every inch of her hurt, but the moment she heard the sound of the gate – heard his name – her body responded with the sudden impulse to run. For a moment she hesitated, not wanting to leave Raven behind, but unable to hide her relief when her friend gestured at her to go on ahead.

Her vision tunneled until all she could see was Bellamy, in his filthy t-shirt and with blood all over his face. She catapulted into his arms without thinking twice, without considering the crowd gathered around them or his sister smiling far too knowingly.

She wrapped her arms around him and found to her surprise she could breathe for the first time in weeks. She buried her face into his shoulder and closed her eyes to inhale the scent of him: cold air and sweat and the metal of his blood. She felt him stand stiff and shocked for a moment, until suddenly something in him gave way and she felt his arms wrap around her tightly. He held her as if he would never let go. To her amazement, she realized that it was not until this moment that she was home.

“There’s something I thought I’d never see,” Octavia commented.

She stepped back to look at him, reluctantly loosening her hold on him. For a moment, they examined each other. His dark eyes darted over her face, a bewildered smile on his face. With a great deal of effort, she tore her eyes away from his face, drawing Octavia into a hug. But within minutes, her eyes went back to meet his.

Standing there, next to the gates of their new home, with Raven and Octavia watching, Clarke found herself suddenly navigating an unfamiliar landscape. It was as her father had said: not so much a moment of change as a sudden awareness of a change that had already happened without her noticing.

Somehow, without either of them noticing, Bellamy Blake had become her person. The one she waited for at the gate. The one she looked to whenever something important or ridiculous happened. The one she sat next to at the campfire that night. The one who put food aside for her when she was held up at the medical bay. The first person she looked for in the morning and the one she always made a point of saying goodnight to at the end of the day.

Sometimes, when they sat together by the fire or over dinner, she would notice Raven watching her with a sly smile on face. She knew half the camp believed she and Bellamy were involved – even Kane always seemed to assume she would know exactly where he was at any given moment.

She never let the rumors bother her. Firstly, it was no one’s business. But, there was also the knowledge, somewhere deep inside her where she never dared to look, that they were right on some level.

There was a connection between them. Even when they pulled at it, even when it frayed, it never broke.

* * *

Bellamy sat on the chair in front of her, his face grim and his arms crossed. As she explained the procedure and showed him the instruments, his jaw ticked. Every inch of him radiated unhappiness.

“You have to make sure you drill into the bone,” she said, sitting on the edge of the stainless steel table. “You need to take the fluid from the marrow.”

“I understand,” he said flatly.

“You have to keep going,” she said firmly, sitting on the edge of the stainless steel table. “No matter what happens. You can’t stop.”

“I understand, Clarke.”

“You can’t stop even if…even if I scream.”

At that, he buried his head in his hands for a moment, rubbing his eyes.

“Bellamy,” she said, reaching out with her foot to tap his knee. “You have to promise me you’ll see it through.”

“I know what I have to do,” he said, running a hand through his unruly hair. “But I don’t have to like it.”

She nodded, aware she would feel the same way in his position. “Good.”

She lifted the back of her shirt, twisting to peer down at the back of her hip. She felt his eyes on her bare skin as she marked the spot where he would drill into her flesh. She would need to his belt to bite down on – and to muffle her screams. Going through the procedure without anesthesia would be agonizing. Despite his grim expression, she knew he would live up to his word. He would not stop.

“This is where you make the cut,” she said, pointing to the ink she had marked on her skin. He reached out to press his fingers to it.

She shivered at the sensation of his fingers on her skin. “X marks the spot.”

“Exactly.”

His finger traced the mark on her skin. A flare of heat shot through her at the sensation. But the expression on his face was oddly mournful. “I never wanted to be the one to hurt you.”

“This is not that,” she said firmly. “This is about survival.”

He sighed. “When is it not?”

“I know you’d never hurt me,” she said, her serious tone giving way to something else. She knew his mind was back on the moment before he collapsed. When he was a whisper away from kissing her. She had been certain of it. “That’s not who you are.”

Bellamy sighed, shaking his head as if to clear it before looking up at her perched on the edge of the table. It was strange being taller than him. He looked up at her with an expression on his face that she remembered from the beach. He took a deep breath and sat up straight in his chair – his soldier pose.

“Clarke,” he said, his voice determined. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

Fear shot through her stomach: the memory of him collapsing to the ground, the sight of him with a knife to his throat. A part of her was desperate to know what he wanted to say to her. But another, larger part was afraid of what it would mean.

“We need to focus,” she said, her voice kind but firm. “We need to make sure you’re going to be alright.”

“We can’t make sure of that,” he said, catching her gaze. “In all our time on the ground, we’ve never been safe.”

“Our first priority has to be survival - ”

To her surprise he stood to his feet, moving into her space, eyes burning and determined. The transfusion had done its work; he was steady on his feet. When he reached out to trace a line down her cheek, she closed her eyes.

“I’ve always believed survival is about fighting the hardest,” he said gently. “But now I think survival is about more than staying alive.”

She opened her eyes, looking up to those eyes of his, unguarded and filled with emotion. She tried to think of something to say, but found suddenly her objections died on her tongue.

“All I wanted to tell you was that everything that’s happened, everything we’ve lost, every impossible decision we’ve had to make, the end of the world – all of it was worth it. Because I got to meet you.”

Suddenly her arms were around his neck and her head pressed against her neck. She felt his pulse next to her cheek, racing like her own. She pulled him close, until every inch of her was pressed against him.

“Was that what you were going to tell me at the beach?” she asked, her voice thick with emotion.

“Something like that,” he said, after a brief pause. “Nothing means more to me than you, Clarke. You know that, right?”

She pulled back, not releasing his shoulders but smiling up at his earnest expression. “I had my suspicions when you let the rocket leave without you.”

He huffed a laugh and drew her back into his arms. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

For a while, they stood just like that, eyes closed and holding each other close while the end of the world continued to rage outside.

* * *

Clarke lay face down on the table. She had insisted on doing it this way, knowing it would be easier for Bellamy to do what he had to do without seeing her face. She lay with her arms folded as he rearranged the instruments for the fifth time.

“You’re stalling,” she said, her voice teasing. In her hand, she held a strap that had once secured the fire extinguisher to the wall. He had not asked her what it was for. She suspected he didn’t want to know.

Despite their lack of anesthesia, she had found some painkillers. He watched her while she placed the pills on the table and swallowed them with water. His expression was unimpressed; they both knew that without anesthesia the procedure would be agony. The strap was not just to place between her teeth to prevent her from biting down on her tongue. It was to at least attempt to prevent her from screaming.

He crouched down to meet her eye. “Are you sure you want me to do this?”

“I’m sure,” she said firmly.

“If you change your mind - ”

“I’m not going to change my mind. No matter how long you stall for.”

“I’m not stalling,” he said, his eyes flashing with defiance.

“Then get on with it,” she said matter-of-factly before putting the strap in her mouth, between her teeth. He gave her one more searching look before nodding to himself and disappearing from view.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Here we go.”

She waited. When nothing happened, she looked over her shoulder to find him standing with a drill in his hand, looking absolutely stricken.

“Bellamy,” she said. “You can do this.”

“What if I make a mistake?”

“You won’t,” she said firmly. “We’ve gone over this. You know what to do. And you’ve never once let me down.”

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. As she watched, he schooled his expression. She had seen him do it before, closing himself off from his emotions.

“Alright. I’m ready.”

“I know you are,” she said, before placing the strap in her mouth once more.

The first incision wasn’t too bad. His hands were steady and sure as he worked. Clarke lay on the table, focusing on her breathing and trying to avoid making any noise that might shake his confidence.

And then he turned on the drill. It was then she realized how foolish it was to imagine the painkillers would do anything to dull the sensation. She remembered standing in the control room in Mt Weather and hearing the screams of her friends. Even that could not prepare her for the sensation. Not just pain as the drill made its way through bone, but also the sensation of wrongness – a vibration she could feel through her entire skeleton. Pain wracked through her body, and a noise ripped from her throat.

“Clarke - ”

“Don’t stop,” she said, her voice almost unrecognizable through the haze of pain. She wrapped her hands around the legs of the table underneath her, hoping the tension of her muscles would distract her.

He didn’t stop. Just like he promised. But, Clarke knew that if she looked at him in this moment – if he saw the tears in her eyes and her face twisted with pain – there was no way he would finish the procedure. So she buried her head in her arms and bit down on the strap. The pressure on her bone was too much to bear. She felt herself begin to black out.

But just when she thought she could stand no more, it was over. The pain stopped, leaving behind a dull ache. The relief almost overwhelmed her.

She lifted her head, peering over her shoulder to see his head bent over, tears running down his face, mingling with sweat. One hand was pressed to her lower back. The hand holding the syringe was shaking. When he saw her looking, he swiped the back of his hand across his face.

“You did it,” she said tiredly.

He shook his head wordlessly, placing the syringe on the table next to the other instruments. For a moment, he stared down at his gloved hands. She wondered whether he was looking at her black blood or whether he was reliving the procedure.

“Bellamy? You need to help me sit up. It needs to be fresh when I make the solution.”

He swallowed and pulled off his gloves. When he circled around the table, she reached out to catch his hand, tugging him down until she could see his face. But when their eyes met, his face crumpled.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Hey,” she said, pulling him closer until she could reach the back of his neck. He buried his face in the crook of her neck. “You did a good job.”

“I hurt you,” he said, his voice twisted with self-loathing.

“I asked you to do it. I needed you to do it. This is not on you, Bellamy.”

He lifted his head from her shoulder, peering at her from this odd position – him hunched over the table, her still lying on her stomach.

“Yes it is,” he said seriously. Then, he reached down and helped her turn over onto her back. His touch was gentle, as if she was made from spun sugar. Her hip protested every movement, and she saw him register her every wince.

She squeezed his hand on her shoulder, before reaching for the syringe. She held it in her hand for a moment, considering her words. Then she looked back at him.

“I can’t accept your apology,” she said. “Because you don’t need forgiveness. There’s nothing to forgive. Keeping you alive is worth it. I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, too.”

He nodded silently, overcome by her words and the emotion of the day. She offered him a nod in return, before returning once more to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: That turned out a lot darker than I intended. I also originally planned for this chapter to be the final one. But, now I think I might have another chapter or two left in me. Trust me when I say the next couple chapters will be a lot lighter. And probably a little smutty. Hope that works for you guys!
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for leaving comments and kudos
> 
> \---  
> Footnotes:
> 
> [1] “She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.” – J.D. Salinger. 
> 
> [2] “I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, then all at once.” – John Green, The Fault in our stars.


	5. Dreaming you hard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve been attracted to you forever, Clarke,” he breathed, running his hand along the length of the leg that was tightening around him. “At least it feels like it. I’ve watched you, and dreamed about you, and imagined what I’d do with you if I finally got to touch you. Now that I actually have you, I almost don’t know where to start.”
> 
> She bit her lip at the images he was evoking. “We have all the time in the world to work through your list.”
> 
> “All the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to do the things I want to do with you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what has come over me with this story; I just keep feeling compelled to add chapters. I'm fairly sure the next one will be the last (though I know I've said that before). 
> 
> In this chapter I found myself compelled to write from Bellamy's perspective more. It took me to some dark places, but I hope you enjoy the insight. 
> 
> I should also warn you there is some light smut towards the end of the chapter. Hope that doesn't offend anyone's sensibilities!

> _“Uninvited, the thought of you stayed too late in my head,  
>  so I went to bed, dreaming you hard, hard, woke with your name,  
>  like tears, soft, salt, on my lips, the sound of its bright syllables,  
>  like a charm, like a spell.  
>    
>  Falling in love  
>  is glamorous hell; the crouched, parched heart  
>  like a great tiger ready to kill; a flame’s fierce licks under the skin.  
>  Into my life, larger than life, beautiful, you strolled in.”_
> 
> \- Carol Ann Duffy, “You”

It was a daring escape – Roan in hand-to-hand combat on the back of the truck and Bellamy in the driver’s seat shooting her captor in the head as she drove.

There was a moment when she hit the brakes that she thought the car might crash into him. A moment of raw panic, imagining his body crushed between the two cars. As the car stopped, the feeling gave way immediately to a relief so intense it took her breath away. Their eyes met, they smiled at each other, and time stuttered for a moment.

Increasingly, she felt as if they were right on the precipice of something. It was in the moment when she clasped his hand in the throne room. It was in moment back in Arkadia when she was aching with so much tenderness for him that all she could do was press her cheek to his hand when it rested on her shoulder.

He jumped from the driver’s seat of his car, hurrying to meet her. She opened the door and paused for a moment, realising suddenly her heart was racing. A second slower and she would have driven right into him – that was her thought as he appeared before her.

“Are you okay?” he asked urgently, examining her for injuries. She held on to the door, shaking her head at his concern for her when it had been him who was within seconds of being killed.

“We have to stop meeting this way,” she said, with a small laugh. “My nerves can’t take it.”

“Come on, Princess,” he said, offering her his hand to help her down from the car. “You’ve got nerves of steel.”

She landed on the grass and found herself suddenly unwilling to release his hand. Instead, she held his hand between two of her own, as if protecting it. He stared down at their joined hands in surprise, something vulnerable in his expression. Their eyes met again, without the windshields to separate them, and she squeezed his hand.

“Not when it comes to you,” she said, before interlocking her fingers with his.

Surprise flashed across his face and his hand tightened around hers. “Please, I was completely in control of the situation.”

“It didn’t really look like it from where I was sitting.”

“I had a plan,” he said, offering her a self-confident smile. It may have been her imagination, but it did seem like he was standing quite a bit closer to her than was necessary, backing her against the rover. Not for the first time, she wondered what it would take for him to press her body against the car and -

“I’m sorry to interrupt this little reunion,” Roan said, appearing from behind them with his eyebrow raised. “But we have a situation.”

Reminded suddenly of their mission, she dropped Bellamy’s hand as if scolded. From the corner of her eye, she saw him cross his arms over his chest and glower at Roan as they discussed the plan. His mutinous expression only grew when Roan announced he would riding back to the beach with ‘ _Wanheda’_. Before Bellamy could protest, he climbed into the passenger seat.

“It’s not like he can drive himself,” she reasoned, as Bellamy glared through the windshield at Roan who sat impassively in the passenger seat.

“I don’t trust him,” he said flatly.

“He needs us. He just helped save me. He’s not going to hurt me.”

“I don’t trust him,” he said again, before drawing a deep breath and stepping away from the car. He paused for a moment, before handing her his gun. “If he tries anything, shoot him in the head.”

With that, Bellamy strode over to the black car, climbed in and revved the engine with slightly more force than was necessary. Tucking his gun in the back of her jeans, Clarke opened the door and climbed back into the rover. She could see Bellamy staring at them in the rear view mirror of the car head.

“Your consort doesn’t like me much,” Roan commented as Clarke began to follow Bellamy.

“He’s not my _consort_ ,” she said quickly. “I don’t even know what a consort is.”

“Your lover, then.”

“He’s not my lover either.”

When Roan eyed her profile, she knew he had detected the hint of wistfulness in her tone. “He may not be your lover. But he does love you, does he not?”

She swallowed, determined not to react. Roan’s voice is the same always, both open and uninflected. Unfazed for the most part by the latest disaster. “Well, I agree he doesn’t like you,” she said breezily.

“I flatter myself by choosing to believe he is jealous,” Roan chuckled.

“Bellamy can be protective.”

He nodded seriously. “There are worse things for a man to be.”

“Yes there are,” she said, before offering him a half smile. “Though you did try to stab him in the throat. That could be the other reason he isn’t particularly fond of you.”

As expected, Roan showed no sign of discomfort at the reminder. “I believe the first crime I committed in his eyes was taking you away from him.”

Silence fell over them as Clarke occupied herself with following Bellamy back to the beach. She always knew when they were about to part ways. Something deep within her could always sense it. She dreaded another goodbye.

“So if he is not your consort and he is not your lover, what is he to you, this warrior of the Sky People?”

It was hardly the first time she had heard that question. Almost anyone who spent any time at all with them ended up asking the same. It was only her friends – who understood the whole complicated history between them – who held their tongues. Her mother seemed to have decided for herself what they were; after all it Bellamy who Abby chose to threaten to force Clarke to take the chip. She might have been under the control of ALIE, but she was acting on her own insights.

Clarke almost laughed; truly her life had taken a strange turn when the king of Ice Nation was commenting on her love life.

“He’s…Bellamy,” she said, shrugging helplessly. “He’s not someone I can easily categorise. At least not when the world is ending.”

Roan cut his eyes away at that, as if he had seen something private in her expression. “You wait for peace.”

“I’m starting to think peace is never going to come.”

For a while, they sat silently as the landscape sped by. Bellamy set a fast pace, and Clarke wondered what he was brooding about in the car in front of her. Knowing him, he was running through the list of people he had to protect from the latest – and greatest – threat. His mind would be on his sister. He had told her once about the day Octavia was born. The words his mother spoke to him – _my sister, my responsibility_ – which became more like a creed for life than the rather reckless words of an exhausted mother.

Only when his sister was safe would he think about anything other than survival. Clarke knew she was not the only one who was waiting for an elusive peace.

They pulled up at the beach, regarding the water that seemed to go on forever. It was perfectly still, and when Bellamy climbed out of his car, he cut a melancholy figure dressed head to toe in black. For a moment, she watched him – the blue of the sky, the blue of the water, the darkness of his features. She would draw him, just like this, when peace came.

She startled when she felt a light hand on her forearm. She turned to Roan in confusion, and found him giving her a serious, but not unkind, look.

“You should not wait to have the things you want, Wanheda,” he said seriously. “A warrior’s life is short and violent. We should seize what happiness we can while we are still breathing.”

For a moment she considered his words, before shaking her head as if to clear it. When she unbuckled her seatbelt, she was brisk and business like once more.

“I’m trying to _keep_ us breathing,” she said, before climbing out of the car and joining Bellamy where he stood on the shore.

She knew from Bellamy's bearing that her guess was right. He was going to find his sister. That was just the sort of person he was. It was how both of them were, really. The moments they shared could only be moments until the job was done.

“She’ll realize how special you are,” she said, giving herself away.

He stood stock still for a moment and gave her another one of those heart-stopping looks.

“Clarke, if I don’t see you again -”

She stopped him before it could go too far, before he could distract her from saving the world in the face of another devastating blow. But as Bellamy drove away, she wondered whether Roan was right.

Even when she promised him they would meet again, she wondered how many more chances they would have.

* * *

When Clarke had finished the nightblood solution, in the early hours of the morning, he had carried her their room. She smiled ruefully; back once more on the sofa in pain. He set her down gently, just like he must have when she first returned. But when she tugged on his hand to pull him down into her arms, he resisted. The look on his face would not fade. Because he was Bellamy, he had to nurse his self-loathing in private. She let go of his hand.

She woke to find her pain manageable but present. He had found a pair of crutches for her and she hobbled her way around the laboratory looking for him. She was ready to cajole him out of his dark place. A night of brooding should be more than enough. And if it wasn’t – well, she would wait it out. Saving his life was worth any residual anger he held for her.

She found him downstairs, sitting in the corner of one of the abandoned rooms they rarely explored. It looked like a storage room, covered in dust and objects that were meaningless to both of them. If only Raven were here to tell them which of the tangled wires would help them when they moved to the main house.

He sat with his legs sprawled in front of him, his head leaning back against the wall. It was the same way he sat in the throne room in Polis, after they defeated ALIE. Back then she sat next to him, her head leaning on his shoulder. Two world-weary soldiers attempting to ready themselves for the next fight.

“You shouldn’t be walking,” he said flatly.

She decided it was best to ignore him. “What are you doing down here?”

“Thinking,” he said, but she knew he meant _remembering_. Sometimes the memories of the past 12 months would overwhelm her – the isolation, the violence, the life and death situations that happened every day.

“Do you want me to leave?” she asked.

He thought for a moment, before shaking his head. Carefully, she picked her way towards him. When she stumbled slightly on her crutches, he tensed and made as if to stand up. She waved him off and sat down on the floor next to her. Bracketed between two shelves, their bodies pressed next to each other, Clarke felt something loosen in her chest.

“What are you thinking about?”

At that, he turned his head to examine her profile. She wondered for a breathless moment whether he would turn his head more completely, to finish what they started upstairs before he collapsed. But his eyes were brimming with regret.

“All the mistakes I’ve made.”

“Everyone makes mistakes.”

He chuckled without humor. “Most people’s mistakes don’t come with body counts.”

“The choices are different in war."

He turned his head. “You asked me once if war was what I wanted.”

“I remember,” she said softly.

“Do you ever think maybe you’re wrong about me? Wrong to forgive me for everything I’ve done?”

“Not even for a minute,” she said, leaning her head on his shoulder and wrapping her arms around his.

“People have been put to death for less. The grounders would say I deserve to die.”

She remembered suddenly, the look that Finn had given her when she appeared from the trees. The vacant look of satisfaction, as if the violence he unleashed on the villagers had somehow summoned her to his side.

“Is that what you believe?”

“I’m responsible for hundreds of deaths, Clarke. I stole Raven’s radio. I pulled that lever right along with you. I slaughtered a grounder army when they were armed with swords and I had a gun. Because of me Lincoln is dead. Because of me Wells is dead. Because of me my mother is dead. Where’s the line? You tell me – when does it become unforgivable?”

“When you don’t regret it. When it no longer haunts you. When you kill to get what you want instead of to protect people.”

“I don’t regret it. Not all of it. I would do all that and more if it meant saving our friends. So what does that make me?”

He leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes. His lips were pressed into a thin line. It occurred to her how often he must run through the list of his crime for them to be so close at hand. She reached out and pressed a hand to his cheek, forcing him to look into her eyes once more.

“It makes you human. I’ve made mistakes too, Bellamy. More than I can count. Am I unforgivable too?"

"It's different. You make tough choices. I make the wrong choices."

Clarke bit her lip. "If you’re trying to make me hate you it’s not going to work. I could never hate you.”

“Maybe you should.”

She smiled, even in the face of his grim expression. “Impossible," she said softly.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness," he said, his expression wavering in the face of her tenderness.

“Well you have it. There’s more than enough blame to go around. I was wrong to walk away from you after the mountain. We should have helped each other. We could have carried it together. I understand that now. I hope you do, too. You don’t have to be alone. Not when you don’t want to be. I’m here for you.”

His expression shifted once more, softening as he took in her words. She loved watching his face when he let his guard down. His features were so expressive. It was why she loved to draw him. Even in this quiet, dusty corner of a room filled with broken objects, his eyes burned with the conflict inside of him.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, as if she were something miraculous he had stumbled across rather than his friend, his partner, the person whose life he had saved dozens of times.

“Neither do I,” she said, offering him an impish grin, before leaning her head once more on his shoulder. “But now you have me. I’m not going anywhere. You’re not alone.”

“Not alone,” he said, as if sounding the words out, rolling them on his tongue.

She looked up at him again, from her position sprawled by his side. She noticed his eyes darting across her face, as if memorising her features. As if he could spend his life staring at her. Something in the air shifted between them. She reached out and pressed her hand to his chest, feeling his heartbeat increase in speed.

“Bellamy,” she said, but she had no idea what else to say. It occurred to her the word meant more than his name now. His name meant safety. His name was an answer to every one of her questions. His name meant ‘us against the world’. But now the world was far away and he pulled her closer to his side.

He leaned ducked his head and kissed her on the forehead. Then, on the cheek. Then, just below the ear. Then, he pulled back to catch her eye once more, noting her heaving chest and the way she moved her head to get back into his orbit. With that familiar half-smile, he reached out and pressed her hair behind her ear. Then, he leaned forward once more and kissed her on the side of her mouth.

He pulled back once more. “Clarke?” he said softly, catching her eyes and asking the unspoken question that echoed across almost all of their interactions.

So, she did the only thing that made sense. The first thing she was absolutely certain about since she crash landed on earth. She reached out, pressed her hand to the back of his neck, her fingers in his hair. And then, she pressed his lips to hers.

For a moment, he froze, as if shocked at the contact. Then, the tension left his body and he kissed her back. No more than a gentle press of his lips. Nothing but sweetness and a promise. He pressed another gentle kiss to her lips. Then another, harder and deeper than before. Each touch sent a spark of electricity down her spine.

“If you want me to stop, you had better tell me now,” he said, his voice striking a low note somewhere in the base of her stomach.

In response, her hand twisted in his hair, pulling his mouth towards hers again. She kissed him, pressing herself to him, scrambling for purchase. Suddenly any gentleness was gone, replaced by an intensity that surprised them both. Even sitting on the ground, with hardly enough room, they pulled each other closer.

She clutched him because he was the only stable point on a world tipped on its axis. They said words neither of them could recall afterwards – or maybe they just said each other’s names. Praimfaya itself could strike again and neither of them would notice.

Minutes or hours later they pulled away, chests heaving with exhaustion, unable to let go of each other. His hair was even more unruly than usual. She noticed a line of red marks on his neck that she had left behind. Her cheek burned where his stubble had rubbed against her. They grinned at each other.

“Well, that was worth the wait,” she said, surprised at her breathless voice.

He huffed a laugh before pulling her up from the ground and into his lap, taking care with her aching hip. “And that was just our first try,” he said with a grin that was more carefree than any she had seen on his face before.

Alone in the world, they kissed desperately, as if making up for lost time.

* * *

Those long months when she was gone. Suddenly Bellamy found himself in a world drained of colour.

After she kissed him on the cheek and walked away, he went to the medical bay in Arkadia and sat by her mother’s bedside. He was the one who told her Clarke was gone.

“She knows how to look after herself,” Abby said, and it was really a question.

“She can handle herself,” he said, his voice flat but apparently sufficiently reassuring.

“And she’ll come back.”

He nodded because he didn’t trust himself to speak.

At first, the shock her absence was too much for him. He was numb to it. He went about his routine, seeing to the needs of the camp, of his friends, of the council. He soothed nightmares, broke up fights, built cabins, spent long nights talking strategy with Kane, taught the newest recruits to shoot, hunted for food, searched about for parts for Raven, and pretended not to notice the hate in Jasper’s eyes.

She entrusted all of it to him, and not knowing quite what to do with himself in her absence, he did what was expected of him. But, it caught up with him eventually, the way it always does.

It happened on the wall when the season began to turn. He could smell the cold in the air, even though he had never experienced it before. Moments like that reminded him of the fact that despite everything that happened here, the ground was where they belonged. His body – his genetic code – remembered the lessons of his ancestors. Instinct let a man born in space know when rain was about to fall.

It was the sort of thought he would only ever say out loud to Clarke. Because he knew she would know what he meant, - or at least she would realize she did the moment he put it into words. He almost turned to say the words over his shoulder, when he remembered she was gone.

The space inside him reserved for Clarke stretched its arms and claimed still more room. He felt her absence like a physical blow, made worse by the fact it was out of all proportion. He had spent most of his life without her. Why should he feel her absence like lead in his stomach?

That night he sat by the fire and drank moonshine until he felt something like the numbness he had known before. But alcohol did nothing but dissolve any barriers he erected to keep the loneliness at bay. He sat slumped at a table with his friends, more miserable than he had been before he made the effort, remembering the sight of a mountain filled with corpses. Filled with people who had trusted him.

Raven and Monty walked him back to his tent, his arms slung over their shoulders and his steps uncertain. He towered over both of them, and even through the haze of moonshine, he knew he looked ridiculous.

“It was both of us,” he slurred. “Why did she walk away?”

“It was all of us,” Monty said. “We made the decision together.”

He peered up at the stars, and tried to remember how it had been before Clarke left. “Now she’s gone.”

“She’ll be back,” Monty said with gentle certainty.

Raven was silent, and somehow her silence spoke more clearly to him than Monty’s words. Perhaps Clarke would never return. Perhaps he would wait here for her for the rest of his life. He realized dimly he was speaking his thoughts out loud as they lowered him onto his bed.

“I hate depressed, lovesick drunks,” Raven said as they left him alone with his scattered thoughts. It was not until they left that it occurred to him to tell them that he was _not_ lovesick. But they were gone, so he just told the night air.

He awoke facedown on his furs, his head throbbing and his mouth dry. For a long time, he stared at the wall of his tent and wondered how long exactly he could go on this way. The weeks passed in a blur, his edges and his temper frayed. He worked harder than ever on his jobs in the camp, but he stopped soothing nightmares. He slammed an idiot from factory station against the wall when he found the man fooling around with guns in the armory. More often than not he itched to join fights rather than end them.

He was called into another council meeting, asked to describe the supplies left in Mt Weather. He stood there, back rigid and tried not to notice the parts of Abby Griffin that reminded him of her daughter.

While he stood before them, answering their questions in brisk, clipped sentences, it occurred to him that these were the same people who had killed his mother. When Clarke was there, he could stand behind her and glower, speaking only when it was important. In her absence, it fell to him to deal with them. He lacked her grasp of nuanced politics. For the first time it occurred to him that there was something unseemly about being good at such a dirty business.

With each day that passed without word from her, the anger grew in his chest. She was a coward to run away from her problems. She was selfish to stay away for so long. She was gone and he was alone.

Perhaps it would have been manageable if she didn’t _keep_ slipping away for him. When he found her in the cave that day, bound and gagged, the anger disappeared as if by magic. Touching her face, her hair, all he could feel was wonder. After Roan attacked him and she bargained for life, he stayed for a while in the cave, replaying the scene and thinking of everything he could have done differently to save her.

He realised it was easier to be angry with her than to feel his chest splitting apart.

It was different at Polis, when she stood before him with her face obscured by grounder make-up. It was easy to hate her, when he saw her camouflaged in Lexa’s court. Easy to hate Lexa, too, for abandoning them at the mountain, for holding Clarke under her thrall.

When he asked her come with him, she said, ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ in a voice that sounded nothing like her own. Her hair was pulled back into complex grounder braids. She looked strong and fearless, and he ached for her and hated her in equal measure.

When he returned to camp he forced himself not to think of her. To show her that he was as indifferent to her as she was to him. The feelings festered, grew, transformed. He lost himself in the feeling of betrayal. He lost himself, and then he found Pike.

Everything changed when he met Pike. Pike taught him to put his anger into words. Focusing it, sharpening it to a point. It was easier to be angry than to miss her.

And then there she was, looking at him with those wide blue eyes, looking at him like he was a stranger. There was a grim pleasure in that.

“Please tell me that going to war is not what you want,” she said, her eyes searching his face.

“We’ve been at war since we landed. At least Pike understands that.”

“Pike is the problem,” she said. “This isn’t who you are.”

“You’re wrong,” he said, convincing himself wit his words. “This is who I’ve always been.”

There was a certain satisfaction to watching her see the wound she had left him with. “You left me,” he said, and when he realised he had said too much, he added: “You left everyone.”

He might have stood there all day, raging and slinging accusations at her. But, something in her gave way at his words. She sank down into the seat, her head bowed.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leaving. But I knew I could because they had you.”

Hating her was complicated. The sight of her head bowed, her shoulder slumped, was almost painful. He knelt before her and their hands tangled between them. The skin of her wrist was thin. He could feel her pulse racing at the contact and that old familiar longing overcame him for the first time in a long time.

He knew – and the certainty was bitter on his tongue – that she was here as an emissary of Lexa. He knew that she had assumed if she waltzed into camp and talked to him he would follow her like always. Following her saw him in shackles. Following her led to a sword against his throat.

“I know we can fix this,” she said, smiling at him uncertainly.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said, already reaching for the handcuff. She smiled, even as he betrayed her.

He turned around and left her behind, figuring it was his turn to walk away.

Long after he was out of earshot, he heard her calling after him. It should have felt good, returning the favor, returning fire. But already he was turning over his words in his mind, finding phrases to regret, identifying tones too harsh. He listed her crimes as a reminder to both of them – that he had no reason to feel guilty. That he had no reason to want to go back to that room.

But the truth was he was not just angry with her. He was angry about all of it – the dangers of life on earth, the disappointments that measured out his life, the way things never turned out the way he wanted them to. Most of all, he was angry with himself for letting her leave in the first place.

* * *

Clarke woke to find the world exactly the same as it was the day before, and yet it seemed completely different. Outside, radiation choked the air and withered the plants. Their friends and family were scattered, in space or underground. Their entire world had shrunk to just the four walls of this laboratory.

But one fundamental thing had changed. Clarke stole a glance over her shoulder. Bellamy Blake was tracing his initials on her hipbone with all the concentration of an artist at an easel. She caught his hand in hers, turning over to face him and pulling his arm around her once now. He offered her a wide grin, his hand tracing the line of her spine through her thin t-shirt.

“Morning, princess,” he said, his voice gravel.

In response, she pulled him down for a kiss. They had passed hours this way the day before, in that abandoned room downstairs. But, even as she reached for more, he settled her hands gently in her lap, reminding her of her injured hip.

“I’m never going to hurt you again,” he had said seriously, before lifting her into his arms and carrying her upstairs. He made his way slowly and carefully, as if he was holding a tray of crystal glassware rather than a human being. He settled her on the sofa and handed her a pile of paper that had become her makeshift sketchbook.

“If you’re not going to let me have my way with you, you at least have to pose for me,” she had pouted, giddy with joy of finally being able to touch him the way she wanted to.

“Maybe you can show me some of those dirty drawings you wouldn’t show my sister,” he said.

“Maybe I can do some new ones.”

In response, he struck a ridiculous pose before her, before both of them dissolved into snickers. Even as she pulled him down to the sofa, heart pounding at the feeling of his body balanced carefully over hers, she felt a surprising relief at the fact they could still laugh together. It occurred to her there had always been this aspect of their friendship; the attraction between them applied in all aspects of their interactions. No matter how much their relationship changed, it would always be underpinned by not just wanting but actually _liking_ each other. 

Though concern about their friendship was far from her mind that morning as she slipped a hand under his t-shirt and ran her hand along the bare skin of his strong back.

“I could get used to waking up like this,” she said, her hand slipping lower and squeezing his backside.

“I’ve dreamed of waking up like this for a long time,” he said, lowering his head to capture her lips once more.

“For how long?” she asked between kisses. She noticed when she kissed a particular part of his neck, his breath stuttered.

“Since I taught you to shoot, probably.”

She paused, pulling back to look him in the eye. “Seriously?”

“Well I was basically out of my mind at the time,” he said. “But there was something there – for me, at least – even then. An attraction. When you weren’t being a massive pain in the ass.”

“You’re one to talk,” she scoffed. “Remember when I asked if you had a gun and you used it as an excuse to flash your abs?”

“I was trying my luck,” he said, with a shrug – as if she couldn’t blame him for the attempt.

“You were trying my patience,” she said, before offering him a sly smile and sliding her fingers down to his stomach. She smiled at the sight of his breath hitching as she traced her hand up the plane of his chest to his heart. “But, I admit it was distracting.”

“Distracting was watching you standing there all indignant yelling at one of the kids for running with a knife. I swear to god, Clarke, I could watch you yell at people all day. Sometimes I’d rile you up just to see you get all huffy.”

Her laugh turned into a gasp as he pulled her closer to him, flush against his body. On instinct, she wrapped a leg around him, feeling him harden against her.

“I’ve been attracted to you forever, Clarke,” he breathed, running his hand along the length of the leg that was tightening around him. “At least it feels like it. I’ve watched you, and dreamed about you, and imagined what I’d do with you if I finally got to touch you. Now that I actually have you, I almost don’t know where to start.”

She bit her lip at the images he was evoking. “We have all the time in the world to work through your list.”

“All the time in the world wouldn’t be enough to do the things I want to do with you.”

With that, he flipped and moved her onto her back, her leg still wrapped around his waist. For a moment, he peered into her face, as if memorising the flush of her cheeks, her dilated pupils. Then he pressed a kiss to her collarbone, to the space between her breasts.

Realising suddenly there were far too many layers between them, she pulled her t-shirt off and threw it over her shoulder. Impatiently, she reached out to pull his shirt off as well. At the sight of her lying beneath him, a look of awe grew on his face.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said.

“So are you,” she responded, reaching out once more to trace the muscles of his chest. He really did look like one of those heroes he read about so often. “I think that’s why I drew you in the beginning. To have an excuse to look at you the way I wanted to.”

“Just in the beginning?”

His lips traced down her body, setting her nerves on fire. “I draw what’s important to me. It’s not just about how something looks – it’s about the intensity of my feeling about what I’m drawing. It makes sense I’d draw you most of all.”

He paused his progress, somewhere around her bare stomach. He looked up at her, her eyes mostly closed and her eyelashes fanned on her cheeks. The sight of her lying beneath was stopped him short.

“Bell?” she asked, lifting herself onto her elbows and peering down at him.

He shook his head as if to clear it. “Sorry, it’s just – I guess it just hit me. You and me. The fact we’re here.”

“It took us a while.”

“I never thought we’d get here,” he said, lowering his cheek to rest on her stomach. “That wasn’t why I stayed, you know? I didn’t expect anything from you, from us. I just wanted to be with you. It was selfish, but I thought maybe I was allowed to be selfish. Just this once.”

Her throat constricted in her throat, her eyes burning. “I keep thinking about what it would have been like if you went to space. How alone I would be for years waiting for you to come back. You should know that waking up and seeing you here was the best moment of my life.”

“You waking up was the best moment of mine,” he said. She noticed his throat working and realised he felt it too: the awe and relief of that moment, and the fear of what might have been. She reached down and ran her fingers through his hair, before offering him a wicked grin.

“I have a feeling we might discover some new life highlights.”

The vulnerable expression on his face gave way to a lascivious smile. “You have some plans for me, do you princess?”

“I’m not the one who was talking about their to do list,” she retorted.

“Well, there is one thing I’ve been meaning to try,” he murmured, undoing the drawstring of her pants and sliding them down her legs. The cold air and his hot breath mingled on her legs. He settled between her legs, running his mouth – and his teeth – along the soft skin of her inner thigh.

“Oh?” she asked, trying and failing to keep her voice steady. “And what’s that?”

“I want to taste you,” he murmured, running his finger right down the center of her, before slipping his finger inside her underwear. “Can I do that, Clarke? Can I taste you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “God, yes.”

As she spoke, he slipped her underwear down her legs and traced his mouth back up along her leg. And as he buried his head between her legs, words gave way to moans and desperate please of _faster_ and _don’t stop_. Her world shrunk once more, until all she could feel was the movement of his tongue, his fingers – taking her right to the edge and pulling her back until she begged for her release.

As she came down from her climax, Clarke realised she was looking forward to working her way through his list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I might leave it on a lighter note, given the heavier parts of the chapter. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, reviewing and leaving kudos. I suspect you're what's motivating me to keep adding chapters to what was intended to be a one-shot.


	6. Life on Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You could be up in the Ark right now, growing food instead of watching it run out.”
> 
> “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said firmly. “And we’re going to be fine. We’ll make it to the mansion.”
> 
> She said nothing, just holding him closer. It was never close enough for her. 
> 
> Sometimes when she thought about the future, about what waited for them outside the lab, she felt the sudden need for every inch of her body to be pressed against him. The gravel of his voice in her ears, the rhythm vibrating his chest. She remembered what Roan told her: to seize what happiness she could while she was still breathing.
> 
> Now that she had him in her grasp, it would take death to pull her away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did have every intention of ending the story, but somehow this best laid plan did not quite come to fruition. So, here you have the second to last chapter of this little story that has somehow swollen to twice its intended length. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoy!

> _“I stood looking over my damaged home and tried to forget the sweetness of life on Earth.”  
> _ _  
> _\- Emily St. John Mandel, _Station Eleven_

Space was exactly how Raven remembered it. Cold and empty, but from certain angles profoundly beautiful. But, every time she passed by a window, all she could see was Earth in flames.

For weeks, she could hardly look outside. For as long as she could remember, Earth had symbolised homecoming. Each person on the Ark imagined themselves landing on the rolling green fields of the world below. It was a dream most believed they would never realise; their lot was survival for the continuity of the human race. The future was what mattered, even if no one living ever reaped the rewards.

No one ever imagined they would come back.

Raven put them all to work when they arrived. None of them could rival her for technical expertise – even Monty. So, she defaulted into leadership by virtue of being the only one who knew what needed to be done to get them back to the ground. At night, she tossed and turned and thought over the impossible task before her.

There was far too much to worry about: not just the fact they might never make it home, but also that they might destroy themselves before they had the chance to try.

Sometimes she worried Monty might disappear under the weight of his grief. There was only so much gentle encouragement Harper could offer him, consumed by her own memories. Echo prowled the hallways, restless and held back from throwing herself out the airlock only by fear of the expansive darkness outside. Emori was skittish, still convinced they might at any moment turn on her. And Murphy – well, who the hell knew what new ways he would find to self-destruct?

Raven tried to step into the role of leader, but found it sat uncomfortably on her. For the first time she started to understand the pressure placed on _their_ shoulders.

Bellamy and Clarke. Losing people should become easier with practice, she mused as she peered down at the burning surface of Earth. But, even now months later she could not shake the feeling that there was more she should have done to force Bellamy to leave in the rocket. It was what Clarke would have wanted, and Raven could not help but feel like she had failed her friend once more.

When she could finally bring herself to look out the window – to truly take in the scale of the disaster – the grief came in a sudden overwhelming wave. It was her idea to separate them – for Clarke to climb the tower and for Bellamy to get them back to the laboratory. Surely, she should have known by then that no good ever came from keeping them apart. But, how could she have known she was sacrificing both their lives in that moment?

Months passed and she found herself returning to the window with the best view of the ruined planet. It was impossible to imagine anyone surviving the fury of the death wave. Perhaps they would return to the bunker in five years only to find it filled with bones.

She tried not to think of that possibility. The window was where she came to remember, not to fear for the future. She remembered long nights by the campfire, talking and joking until death felt further away. She remembered them standing shoulder-to-shoulder, unwavering before any obstacle. Clarke operating on Finn, doing what had to be done, making impossible decisions. Bellamy bringing Raven tools and flipping her off across the campsite. Bellamy and Clarke in blazing rows, standing toe-to-toe. Bellamy and Clarke in quiet moments, when they thought no one else was looking. The rest of them, placing bets on when their two leaders would finally confess their undying love for each other.

Bellamy and Clarke dying together. Some people would say there was something beautiful in that. Raven walked through the cold metal hallways of this ship that was filled with memories of Finn, and she tried to see the beauty in it. But all she could see was the tragedy of words unspoken. She knew with absolute certainty that there was no last minute love confession in the weeks leading up to Praimfaya. Clarke always gave everything she had to saving their lives, and Bellamy would never tell her how he felt about her until he was sure it was something she wanted to hear.

(Or perhaps she had already known how he felt. After all, it was written all over his face.)

Raven heard footsteps and glanced over her shoulder. The sound was intentional; Echo was someone who usually moved silently.

“Am I disturbing you?” she asked, standing a respectful distance away.

It was hard for Raven to know quite what to make of the woman. Even when she put on a spacesuit, Raven was unsure whether they were on the same side. She was here because Clarke had insisted on it. Clarke always had her reasons, but rarely saw fit to explain them. At least to anyone who was not Bellamy Blake.

“You’re not disturbing me,” Raven said, after only a brief hesitation. Echo nodded, moving closer to the window, reaching out to touch it.

“Every battle I ever fought happened down there,” Echo said contemplatively. “It must have looked so small from this vantage point. Everything seems small from up here.”

“In the twentieth century, people talked about how your perspective changed in space,” Raven said. “Carl Sagan called it the blue dot. He talked about how everything we experienced and everyone who ever existed lived on a ‘ _mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam_.’ It makes everything seem insignificant.”

“It is not quite a blue dot anymore.”

“Yeah. We really screwed up that analogy. Again.”

Echo turned to face her, as if Raven were a subject more interesting than the now burning yellow dot floating in darkness. “Do you come here to feel insignificant?”

“I come here to think.”

“You come here to remember,” Echo corrected shrewdly.

Raven snorted. “You make it hard to forget you’re a spy.”

“It does not take a spy to recognise regret,” she said, her voice matter-of-fact. “You grieve for your friends.”

Raven considered snapping at her, sending her away. But, the truth was she wanted to talk about it. There was far too much silence in space.

“She would be so mad at me for letting him do it,” Raven sighed, turning around and leaning on the glass window. “He was the one thing that she could never…she would be so mad at me.”

“There was nothing you could do to stop him. Each of us has to choose what we are willing to die for. Bellamy chose to die for love. It was a good death.”

“It was a waste,” Raven said, surprised by the emotion in her voice. “Bellamy and Clarke – they both wasted so much time trying to die for each other. As if either of them could live with knowing that the other died for them. It just makes me…Why can’t people just _live_ for each other instead?”

“A leader does not always have that choice.”

“They weren’t _just_ leaders,” she said, her voice cracking. “They were my friends. They never got to choose any of it. They never got to have a life together. Maybe they could have had that here. And it’s my fault as much as anyone’s that they’re not here. So who should I blame?”

Silence fell as they considered her words. Raven brushed the back of her hand across her eyes, unwilling to share her tears with the woman by her side. They all steered clear of Echo. It occurred to Raven how lonely it must be for her to be so far from anything familiar, ripped away from the code that defined her life.

“I held a sword to Wanheda’s throat while her mother watched,” Echo said, as if this were a normal topic of conversation. “Bellamy wanted to kill me for it. He _would_ have killed me for it if I hadn’t let her go. I don’t even know if he was armed.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered to him either way. He would have done whatever it took to save her.”

“That’s right,” Echo said, shooting her a glance. “In the end we are all who we are. Bellamy stayed behind because that is who he is. You cannot blame yourself, Raven.”

Raven felt suddenly more comfortable with the tears on her face. “Is this a moment? Are we having a moment?”

Echo offered her only the smallest of smiles, before her face grew serious once more.

“It should have been me,” Echo said, peering out at the stars all around them. “I should have been the one to sacrifice myself. You and your friends would be reunited in your strange home in the sky, and I would be redeemed.”

“There’s other roads to redemption,” she said, surprising them both by reaching out and squeezing the woman’s arm.

“Like what?”

Perhaps this was the hardest part about life on the Ark. It was not the silence or the boredom. It was the sense that nothing really mattered. That all you could do was your part to keep the life support system functioning. To keep living until someone else was ready to take over. Over time it wore them down. That was the reason they laced the algae with anti-depressants. All that remained was finding some meaning in the hundred tasks each day required to keep the old tin can in the sky.

“Like by helping Monty with the algae farm or beating Murphy into submission,” Raven said. “By doing what you have to do. To go on doing it each day.”

Echo frowned. “I was taught that redemption comes in death.”

“There are other ways,” Raven said, before biting her lip. “Besides, I can’t do all of this by myself. I need your help.”

“The others will not follow me. They do not trust me.”

“Then we’ll do it together,” Raven said. “That always seemed to work for Bellamy and Clarke.”

For a moment, Echo considered her words, as if recalibrating a lifetime of learning in minutes. Finally, she nodded.

“We will do it together,” she said solemnly, before cocking her head to the side. “How would Bellamy and Wan – and _Clarke_ mark an occasion like this?”

Raven laughed. “Usually by holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes like lovesick puppies. But, how about you and I just drink to it?”

With that, she slung an arm around Echo’s shoulders, feeling them tense and relax under her arm. As she led them to Monty’s fledgling collection of moonshine, she stole one more glance out the window.

There was one thought she had that she never dared to say out loud. That somehow they had found their way back to each other. That for once the ground would be kind to them. She would remember all the impossible odds they had beaten and wonder if maybe – despite all the odds against it – they might have survived.

With some effort, she forced herself to focus on the present. The time for grieving was over. Now it was time to live.

* * *

Bellamy stood hunched over her the worktable, shirtless and focused entirely on the table in front of him. For a moment, Clarke allowed herself to enjoy the view. Even in a world emptied of people, she felt a possessive thrill at the sight of him, a small voice within her gleefully shouting: _mine, mine, mine._

Each day she learned more about his body. She found herself passing long nights tracing her hands over him, as if knowing him by touch might make it easier to draw him. He was never self-conscious when she touched him – she supposed he knew that he had no reason to be. But sometimes he would catch her hand to still it, taking a moment to master himself – still determined not to take things ‘ _too far’_ until her hip healed.

It was maddening. Now that she knew what it felt like to kiss him, to feel the length of him pressed against her, she found her desire for him only increased. The night before, when they kissed in low light, she traced the firm line of his jaw, felt the rasp of his unshaven cheeks. An ache grew somewhere at the back of her throat, until she thought she might weep with gratitude at having met him.

At the sight of her face filled with emotion, his eyes softened and he offered her one of those private smiles of his. “What are you thinking about, Princess?”

“How lucky I am to have you. How glad I am to be here with you.”

She said things like that often enough now that the shock was starting to fade from his face. He was starting to believe her. But whenever she told him how she cared about him, he could never hold her eye. So, he buried her face in the crook of her neck. Perhaps he was afraid of what she would find if she stared directly into his eyes.

“I’m the lucky one,” he murmured, and she could feel his breath on her skin. They fell asleep just like that.

She woke late that morning and he was already gone when she opened her eyes. Finding him at the workbench was a relief; she didn’t like to wake up without him.

She hobbled over to him, noting to her satisfaction that each day her wound was healing. Bellamy did not notice her approach until she wrapped her arms around his waist. For a moment she inhaled his scent, the salt of his skin, still damp from exercise. She pressed a kiss to his back, tracing the line of his vertebrae.

“You’re distracting me, Princess,” he said, the smile in his voice plainly audible. But even as he objected, he pressed a hand to hers where they rested on his stomach.

“What are you working on?” she asked, peaking around to the worktable before him. Before him, the radio was open, its mechanical guts spilling over the table. She sobered at the sight, keeping one hand planted on his back as she stood by his side and looked down at the complex wires that stood between them and the world outside – or rather, between them and the bunker underground where his sister and her mother were enclosed.

“Are you getting anywhere with it?” she asked.

“I would feel a lot more confident if Raven was here to give me orders,” he sighed, gesturing hopelessly with his screwdriver.

“I’m afraid I’m not much of an engineer,” she said regretfully, squeezing his side.

He chuckled, wrapping the arm not holding the screwdriver around her shoulder and pressing a kiss to her hairline. “Too busy learning how to save lives to learn how to fix radios?” he murmured.

“My dad tried to teach me the basics. But I wasn’t much of a student.”

“The only thing I was ever good at was being a guard,” he said, a hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “And I suppose in the end I wasn’t particularly good at that, either.”

She frowned up at him. “You’re good at a lot of things, Bell. In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve been looking after all of us since we landed on the ground.”

“That was different. On the ground I could follow your lead.”

“That won’t get you too far right now,” she chuckled, before peering up at his face. She took pride in the fact he was more likely to smile these days. It made him look younger.

But, even as they languished in their happiness, she could tell that the thought of Octavia pained him. No matter how painful the past few months had been for them, he would never stop caring for her. There was a space in his heart that belonged to his sister. It was the way he loved: completely, unwaveringly and without reservation.

For a while, she leaned on the workbench and watched him fiddle with the cords before reassembling the radio. He learned by necessity on the Ark; the Blake family was not in a position to buy parts or trade when things were broken. He tried every trick he knew – focusing his attention on the Ark, knowing that Raven would be more likely to get the radio working than anyone in the bunker. But they both knew that it might not be a problem with the radio at all; the toxins in the air outside could be an impenetrable barrier. The radio might never work.

He held the radio in his hand, focusing his entire attention on the small black box that could form a bridge to his sister. When he turned the radio on, it made a promising chirping noise. He adjusted the frequency to the Ark station.

“Ark station, come in. Ark station, come in. Raven, can you hear us?”

Neither of them as surprised by the silence that met them.

“Come in, Ark station,” he said again, more forcefully.

“Even with Raven on board it’s a long shot,” Clarke said reassuringly. “They have a thousand things to figure out up there. Comms won’t be high on the list. Besides, the bunker is a hell of a lot closer.”

He nodded, his mouth set in a straight line. Without speaking, he adjusted the frequency.

“Polis, this is Bellamy kom Skaikru,” he said, his voice deeper and far more guarded than it had been when reaching towards space for their friends. “Polis, come in – this is Bellamy Blake and Clarke Griffin kom Skaikru.”

For a moment, they both listened to nothing but silence from the radio. The same silence that met them the day before and the day before.

“Octavia,” he said, just a hint of desperation entering his voice. “Come in, Octavia. Can anyone hear us?”

Minutes passed with no response. She never rushed him during their doomed attempts to reach the bunker. It took as long as it took. Sometimes, he would call for her mother, and she would stand there with her heart in her throat. But mostly he asked for Octavia.

“They’re underground, Bell,” she said gently. “We might need to get closer before we can get a signal.”

He nodded stiffly, before readjusting the frequency at random, repeating his call in Trig and English. Only when he completed the ritual did he place the radio back on the tabletop. They stood in silence for a moment, both staring down at the radio as if the force of their focus might bring it suddenly to life.

“We’ll try again tomorrow,” she said at last.

“Nothing is going to change tomorrow, Clarke,” he said sharply. “You know that as well as I do.”

“We’ll try again, Bell,” she said firmly. “We’ll keep trying until it works.”

He turned his head, examining her face. “What if it never works?”

Clarke considered his words carefully. What if they never reached the bunker or the Ark? Could they survive five years without knowing if her mother and his sister were alive? If their friends were alive? At least she knew her mother had Kane to live or die by her side. Octavia was alone now. Bellamy carried the guilt of that with him every day.

“You could still talk to her,” she said. “Even if she can’t talk back.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know what’s wrong with the radio,” Clarke shrugged matter-of-factly. “All we know if that _we_ can’t hear anything. Maybe Octavia can hear us.”

He offered her a skeptical look. “Do you really believe that?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly, reaching out to run her hand through the hair on the back of his neck. “But, I think you should do it anyway, even if I’m wrong. You shouldn’t carry things around inside you. You don’t have to wait until she can hear you to tell her that you care about her.”

She could see his resolve crumbling as he eyed the radio uncertainly. When he looked back at her, she could see something like hope in his eyes. “Maybe she can hear us.”

Clarke smiled at him, her heart clenching at the sight of his face. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I think the people we love can always hear us.”

With that, she pressed a kiss to the side of his face and hobbled once more into their bedroom.

“O, it’s Bellamy,” she heard him say before she closed the door behind her to give him his privacy. She hoped somewhere underground, Octavia paused for a moment and heard her brother’s voice.

* * *

That night in the woods, Raven was tied to the bedhead in a room lit by candles. The candles made him uneasy; as if the house might any moment burst into flames. For some reason, Bellamy had always believed he would die that way: violently and in a blaze.

He had to drag Clarke away from that room, his arms around her middle, her feet still kicking as if she might try to beat ALIE right out of Raven’s head. It was how he liked her: indomitable, passionate, capable of anything. She filled his vision. Enough to block out Jasper’s hateful glances. Enough to make him forget the feeling of his sister hitting him again and again. Enough to forget the world was on their shoulders once more.

Her presence gave him focus, gave him purpose. He searched the room for bandages as Clarke caught her breath. When he turned around he found her standing with one hand pressed to her arm, chest still heaving. Then she looked at him with those sky blue eyes – faultless like the first river he had seen on Earth – and something in her gaze shifted. She zeroed in on him, eyes sweeping over him and cataloguing his injuries.

The candles left the room dim and full of shadows. He wound the bandages in his hands, searching for something to do.

“Are you okay?” she asked gently.

In spite of himself, his hand pressed to his face. Though perhaps she didn’t have to see the wounds to know something was wrong. Wordlessly, he crossed the room. The wooden floor groaned under his weight. He felt heavy, sluggish. More exhausted than really seemed possible. But Clarke needed him, so somehow he found the strength to walk over.

“Nothing is okay.”

She nodded. He liked that she never needed to be coddled. He never needed to hide things from her – never needed to soften the blow.

She gave him her arm, watching his face as he frowned down at the wound. Raven’s teeth had taken a chunk out of her skin. The wound was deep.

“She hates me,” he said. “Octavia hates me.”

“Impossible,” Clarke said, her voice low and certain. He noticed she looked more like herself again, her hair hanging in waves down her back.

“She blames me for Lincoln,” he said, before lowering his gaze. “She’s right to blame me.”

“You turned Pike in. You changed your mind.”

“Do you really think that matters to her right now?”

Clarke glanced down at his careful work. He wondered whether they should have sat down. It felt strangely intimate standing so close and quiet in an empty room. In spite of himself, that old familiar ache rose in him once more. If only she were capable of staying in one place like this, he might finally find the words to tell her how he felt.

She reached out across the gap between them and turned his face left and right, examining the damage.

“You let her hit you,” Clarke said, disapproval written in her features. “You deserve better.”

“I deserve a lot worse,” he said, embarrassed to find his eyes burning.

“Bellamy - ”

“Lincoln was my friend, Clarke,” Bellamy said firmly. “He was my friend and the love of my sister’s life. And he died in the mud. And I’m to blame. She’s never going to forgive me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know _her_. Better than I know anyone. I held her on the day she was born. I named her. I taught her how to read. I read her stories to help her sleep. On the Ark, I was there every day of her life. She loves completely – and she does not forgive easily.”

“That sounds like someone else I know.”

Bellamy looked up at that and caught her eyes. He knew he should look away, but the sight of her fond smile made it impossible. Time passed, and the smile faded from Clarke’s face as she searched his expression. Not for the first time, something zipped between them before both of them looked away. Bellamy returned to the careful business of tending to her wounds.

“You made mistakes,” Clarke said to the top of his head as he bent over to examine his handiwork. “But you did not kill Lincoln. You didn’t pull the trigger, Bellamy.”

“Not that day, at least.”

“Octavia will forgive you,” Clarke said, pressing her hand to his where it rested on her arm. “You’re family.”

“Have you forgiven your mother?” he asked bluntly.

After a brief hesitation, Clarke pulled her hand away. Gently, but still a clear sign he had overstepped. “That’s different - she _did_ pull the trigger on father when she told Jaha. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love her.”

Bellamy chuckled without mirth. At any moment, the house would fill once more with activity. But for now things were quiet, almost peaceful. From the bedroom, Raven groaned and twisted in her sheets – trying to escape once more.

“You know,” Bellamy said conversationally. “ALIE is a real bitch.”

“Yes she is,” Clarke chuckled, a rueful smile on her lips. “And I let her get to me.”

“No kidding,” he deadpanned, before carefully fastening the end of the bandage. He stepped back, eager for some distance of his own. “Take a break. I’ll let her beat me up for a while.”

The gratitude on her face was too much for him. No words, nothing more than the glimpse of a feeling on her face and she knocked the air out of his lungs. He paused at the door, waiting to hear Clarke leave before entering.

ALIE was a master at identifying weakness. And his weakness had blonde hair and eyes that looked exactly like the sky on a cold, clear day.

* * *

Meals measured out the day, but were becoming less frequent as their supplies waned.

Clarke was a terrible cook; she could hardly open a can without burning something. She was affronted by her lack of ability and insisted on attempting to cook at least one of their meals each day. Mostly, she made it only a few minutes into the cooking process before some mishap would prompt him to step in.

Today her task was simple: simply to heat up protein and put it in a bowl.

Bellamy stood with his elbows on the table as she stared down at the can with a look of concentration that was far too endearing. He hid his smile behind his hands and watched as she broke the ring from the top of the can. Holding the metal tab in her hand, she cursed fluently and impressively – to such a degree that there seemed nothing else to do but to wrap his arms around her middle and kiss her neck exactly where it met her shoulder.

“I’m ready to step in the moment you concede defeat,” he murmured into her neck, grinning at the shiver that passed through her.

“Never.”

He slid his hands down her sides, resting them on her hips. “All you have to do is acknowledge my superior cooking skills.”

“Shut up and find me a can opener.”

Without releasing her from his grip, he reached down to the bench directly in front of her and handed her the can opener. With a look of intense concentration, she attempted to attach the can opener to the side of the can. She barely completed one rotation when the contents of the can exploded over top.

For a moment, she glanced down at her ruined t-shirt. Then, she glanced up at Bellamy who was trying and failing to maintain a straight face.

“Am I a lost cause?”

“Definitely,” he murmured in her ear before kissing her on the mouth. “But you’re _my_ lost cause.”

She chuckled, before dropping the can and the can opener once more on the bench. With a wicked grin, she caught his eye. Biting her lip, she pulled her top over her head and threw it over her shoulder. She grinned when his eyes raked over her exposed skin, before she wrapped her arms around him once more and pressed her lips to his.

Bellamy wondered whether kissing her would ever lose its thrill. Surely one day the sensation of her lips on his would stop feeling like a miracle. But for now the world continued to disappear around them. Minutes – or hours – later, she pulled back, resting her head on his chest. “You could be up in the Ark right now, growing food instead of watching it run out.”

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he said firmly. “And we’re going to be fine. We’ll make it to the mansion.”

She said nothing, just holding him closer. It was never close enough for her. Sometimes when she thought about the future, about what waited for them outside the lab, she felt the sudden need for every inch of her body to be pressed against him. The gravel of his voice in her ears, the rhythm vibrating his chest. She remembered what Roan told her: to seize what happiness she could while she was still breathing.

Now that she had him in her grasp, it would take death to pull her away.

Each day, she pricked his finger with a needle to make sure the night-blood was holding. She watched him breathe while he slept. A part of her was waiting for him to be snatched away. She clasped her arms around his waist and breathed.

“Last night I dreamed about outside,” she said, softly. “Everything was gone, all the people, all the towns. There was nothing but a desert that went on and on.”

With some effort, he pulled back to peer down at her face, his brow creased. Of the two of them, he was far more likely to fall into dark moods. But, it was Clarke whose rational mind tended to draw the grimmest conclusions.

“Some things will survive. They survived last time.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Nature finds a way.”

“I just,” she said, cutting her eyes away from his. “I think about all those people who didn’t even see the end coming. The people who had no idea what was happening, who burned up where they stood.”

His voice was gentle, but certain. “We did what we could in the time we had. You did everything you could.”

She pressed her hand to his chest, feeling his heart gain speed. “I did everything I could for our people. But I would have left everyone else out there die when we closed the bunker door. All the grounders who helped us. Kane. Even Octavia. The only reason I let you open the door is because I couldn’t bear to be without you.”

Silence fell between them, as she knew it would. He loved Octavia the way a parent loves a child. That he forgave Clarke for putting her in danger was a miracle. It would be far longer before she forgave herself. Losing Octavia’s friendship – the way it was between them back at the drop ship – was painful. In the early days, Octavia always hinted that Bellamy might have feelings for her. The light-hearted teasing ended after Tondc.

Clarke wondered what his sister would say if she could see them like this. Surely after everything that had happened, she knew how fiercely Clarke cared for her brother.

“Octavia is my responsibility,” Bellamy said, after a long pause. “If both of you were inside, I would have kept the door closed, too.”

“No,” Clarke said softly, her gaze still far off. “You wouldn’t have.”

She felt his hand on her chin, turning her face until their eyes met once more. His eyes when they caught hers once more were burning with compassion.

“You told me everyone makes mistakes,” he said gently. “That nothing I’ve done is unforgivable. You can’t forgive me unless you’re willing to forgive yourself. If I’m on the list, you’re on the list, remember?”

“It’s different,” she said, holding his eye with some effort. “My mistakes weren’t accidents. Things didn’t get out of hand. My mistakes – all of them – have been calculations.”

“Those calculations kept us alive.” 

“And your heart kept us human. It keeps me human, Bell.”

“The head and the heart,” Bellamy mused.

“We make a good team.”

“Yes,” he said, before scooping her up and lifting her onto the bench. “We do.”

With her sitting on the counter, their eyes were perfectly aligned. She wrapped her legs around his waist, pressing herself against his chest. The sensation of her exposed skin against his t-shirt made her shiver.

For a week they had slept together dressed only in their underwear – and even then only at Bellamy’s insistence. He said he doubted his self-control if she undressed any further.

She grinned as his grip tightened and he pulled her closer against him, his hands against her bare skin. Her hand snaked between them, running down his stomach.

“You know my hip is feeling a lot better,” she said, her voice low.

“It’s only been a week,” he said, tightly as her hand teased at the edge of his pants.

“I’m a fast healer.”

“Clarke,” he said warningly as her hand slipped under the elastic. “I told you I’m not going to risk hurting you again.”

“That’s fine,” she hummed, her face the picture of innocence as she cupped him through his underwear. “You don’t have to do a thing.”

“You don’t play fair,” he said, with a grin that gave way to a groan when her mouth pressed to his neck and she traced his length through the thin fabric. She slipped her hand into his briefs and he let out a noise somewhere between a curse and groan.

“You have no idea,” she whispered. “Although you know, you got me all dirty – the polite thing to do would be to offer to clean me up.”

“You know me, Princess,” he murmured. “I place a very high premium on politeness.”

Before she could comment, he lifted her from the bench – her legs still wrapped around his waist and her arms wrapped around his neck – and did not put her down until they reached the bathroom. Even then, he lowered her to the ground reluctantly.

They stood facing each other, standing as close as possible while they took off the last of their clothes. At last there was nothing at all between them, except the cool air of the temperature controlled laboratory and still more words thought but unsaid

For a moment, they looked at each other, completely exposed. Clarke noticed his skin was marred by scars and she longed to kiss each one. Cataloguing his battles as if they were a landscape.

“You're the most incredible thing I've ever seen,” he breathed, before reaching out to trace a line from her cheek down to her thigh.

“So are you,” she said, before reaching for his hand and tugged him towards the shower and into her arms once more.

Just for a moment, the world contracted until it was nothing more than the comfort of warm water. His hands and his mouth tracing the curves of her body. Her gasping his name. A single perfect moment at the end of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter! I could not resist checking in with Raven in space. I hope no one objected too strenuously to an appearance from Echo. 
> 
> I'm going to be ending this story next chapter. I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have enjoyed writing it. Thank you for the kudos and reviews.


	7. Alive Together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nothing’s changed,” Bellamy said, his chest heaving. “You still decide everything. The only difference is that now you know how I feel about you.”
> 
> “Bellamy - ” Clarke said, feeling the fight drain from her at the sight of his hands shaking at his side. Watching him fall apart was terrifying. Impossible.
> 
> “You know what it would do to me. If something happened to you. You know that. But every plan you make involves you deciding alone to risk your life.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I did it again. Just when I thought I was at the end of the story, I realise there is just a bit more to tell. I hope you enjoy this second last chapter. Or maybe third last. I think I have a problem.

> _“_ _This poem is endless, the odds against us are endless,_ _  
> our chances of being alive together  
>  statistically nonexistent;  
> still we have made it, alive in a time_ _.”_ _  
> _ _  
> _\- Lisel Mueller, “Alive Together

Time passed differently underground. In a world without windows, the world slowed down and a day felt like a lifetime. Some days, the concrete walls pressed down on Abby until her back bent.

If she were a different person, in a different time and place, she might stay in her bunk all day, counting out the hours in painkillers that only delayed the agony. But, she was Abby Griffin, and duty came first. So she passed long days in meetings with Octavia, trying not to notice the look in her eyes as they hardened.

She remembered the day they found out about the child under the floorboards of Aurora Blake’s quarters. A child hidden for sixteen years. Hidden by a seamstress in Delta Station. Hidden by a brother who was the most promising new recruit Marcus had seen in years.

Abby stood alongside Marcus and Thelonious when they floated Aurora. Aurora stood there in the hatch with her arms crossed, staring them down without a hint of apology. Sometimes she saw the same expression on Bellamy Blake’s face and wondered whether the things she had done to ensure they survived would ever be forgiven.

After they found Octavia, the council discussed Bellamy Blake for hours, his photograph up on a screen, alongside a picture of his sister. It was a blessing she was underage. They were spared from making a decision about her fate. Even the hardest heart at that table baulked at the thought of floating a child for being born.

But what to do about Bellamy?

“He hasn’t committed a crime,” Abby reasoned. “His mother was the one who should have terminated the pregnancy.”

“He knew the law, he knew his mother’s secret,” Marcus said, his back straight and his expression stony. “As a guard he had a duty to report her.”

“Do we really expect a son to report his mother?” Theolonius asked. “To report his sister?”

The Blakes were the first siblings for two generations; the word sister sounded strange to them.

“Leniency is not an option,” Kane responded. “Allowing people to flout the one-child policy would lead to chaos.”

“Aurora Blake paid with her life,” Abby said, sending him a cold look. “The debt is paid.”

“How many other parents would be willing to die for the chance to have another child?”

“And how many will turn against us if we turn justice into vengeance?” Abby retorted.

Silence fell around the table. Abby found herself examining the photo of Bellamy Blake. Handsome. Guarded. An unimaginable secret to carry on young shoulders. A lifetime of splitting rations, of fearing at any moment a patrol would pass through and discover the child under the floorboards. He was not much older than Clarke.

“Without consequences the law is meaningless.”

Thelonious leaned forward, his hand on his chin as he considered Kane’s words. “Strip him of his uniform. Send him to the janitorial corps.”

Kane leaned forward in his seat. “Chancellor - ”

“Enough,” Thelonious gestured sharply. “We uphold the law. We are not vengeful.”

The next day, Abby visited the Skybox to examine the girl. Born in secret, she had never had any of her inoculations, had never had any supplements and probably rarely had enough to eat. When Abby entered the room, she pressed her back against the wall. She was far too pale and thin. There was no hint in that moment of the warrior she would become.

“I’m here to examine you,” Abby said gently, placing her bag on the table.

“Are you a doctor?”

Octavia took a step forward, her eyes on the medical instruments Abby laid out on the table. Most she had probably never seen before. She was curious, and Abby almost smiled.

“I’m Dr. Abby Griffin. But you can call me Abby.”

“I’m Octavia,” she said, and then she stuck out her hand. For a moment, they both stared at it, before Abby reached out and offered her a firm handshake.

Abby wondered whether her brother had taught her to shake hands. Did they think one day it would be possible for the girl to walk through the Ark freely? That perhaps the council would make an exception? The thought saddened her. They were not known for mercy.

“Octavia is a pretty name,” Abby said, before holding up her stethoscope for the girl to study. “This will be a little cold.”

Moving slowly, careful not to startle her, Abby pressed her stethoscope to Octavia’s chest. Her heartbeat was strong and steady. She was not afraid. Not really. Just guarded, the same way her brother was in that photograph.

“My brother named me.”

Abby reached for the syringe and gestured at Octavia to offer her arm. “I have a daughter around your age. Clarke.”

Octavia watched as the needle disappeared beneath her skin, scarcely flinching. Abby could tell from her face she was gearing up to ask something.

“Is my brother dead?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“He’s alive.”

Her frame relaxed and she drew a shuddering breath. She knew better than to ask whether her mother was alive. After Abby left, she forgot about the Blake family. A crisis dealt with, a new crisis roaring towards her. That was life in space.

Then Bellamy shot Thelonious. Then came the ground. Then Bellamy Blake entered her life once more.

He stood like a shadow behind Clarke, defending her against any threat, then standing proud and toe-to-toe with her when they disagreed.

She remembered watching at a distance one morning as Octavia and Lincoln saddled horses, ready to ride into the wilderness. Both Blake siblings were born for the ground. More than any of them, Octavia and Bellamy belonged in wide, open spaces. Bellamy stepped towards them, gesturing as if arguing with them. Knowing his protective streak, Abby assumed he was telling his sister it was too dangerous. Just as the sound of shouting reached her ears, Abby watched her daughter step forward and place a hand on his arm.

The boy looked down at her and the fight left him. She kept her hand on his arm, said no more than sentence or two, and changed his entire bearing. He turned back to his sister and said goodbye. For a while they stood watching her ride away, Clarke’s arm linked with his, her hand on the crook of his elbow.

It was completely innocent, but utterly shocking. To see the way her daughter stood so close to the storm of Bellamy Blake. To see their connection in plain display in the middle of camp. To see it as normal for them to stand and watch Octavia ride away as if sending off their own child.

She clutched the wedding ring she wore around her neck and missed her husband. It terrified her to see her daughter growing up and growing closer to a man like Bellamy. Someone unafraid of anything, someone reckless and headstrong. Someone who had shot the Chancellor for a chance to die on the ground with his sister.

But, as Abby came to know Bellamy better and to see the way he was with Clarke, she found herself grateful for it.

She never imagined, when she discussed his fate with the rest of the council what he would come to mean to her daughter. That one day she would trust him with her daughter’s life. There was no one she trusted more than Bellamy to protect Clarke.

Some days, when she missed her daughter with a physical ache, she reminded herself that there was someone in the unkind world who loved her daughter enough to die for her. As long as Bellamy drew breath, Clarke was alive.

She sighed as she entered the small bunk she and Marcus had claimed. Another long day at the end of the world. She found him lying on their narrow bunk, her own glassed perched on his nose. A wave of fondness passed over her at the sight of him. He smiled at her, and suddenly the absence of sunlight did not matter quite so much.

She climbed onto their narrow bunk, peering down at the schematics that rested on his lap.

“What are you working on?”

“The farm,” Marcus said simply. “We need to increase the food volume substantially. How was the meeting?”

“The Grounders are restless.”

Marcus nodded, before adjusting his arm and drawing her close. “Octavia will need to consolidate her position with them.”

She made a noise of assent, before plucking her glasses from his nose and drawing him into a kiss. For a moment, she allowed her breathing to slow until it was perfectly in sync with his.

“I was thinking about Clarke,” she whispered. “And the look on her face when I told ALIE to start with Bellamy Blake.”

“That wasn’t you,” Marcus murmured in response.

“Yes it was. I was the one who knew how Clarke felt about him.”

He pressed his forehead to her temple. “Everyone knew how Clarke felt about Bellamy Blake. The only person who doesn’t know how Clarke feels about him is Bellamy.”

“But it was me in the end,” Abby sighed. “As a mother, you think that the love you have for your children will be enough to meet any challenge.”

“No one could fight the City of Light.”

“Clarke did.”

Silence fell as they contemplated the many times they had been no more than whisper away from death.

“You raised an extraordinary person, Abby. That should make you proud.”

“She always belonged to Jake,” she chuckled. “He always knew what to say, what to do with her. He would have known how to protect her from everything that happened.”

“She has the best qualities of both of you,” he paused, thoughtfully. “And now she has Bellamy to protect her. To love her.”

Abby sighed. “She has always been so careful with her heart. I keep thinking there’s more I could have done to make her less guarded,” Abby knitted her fingers through his. “To teach her how to let someone love her like that.”

“There’s nothing she could do to stop him from loving her.”

“Finally someone as stubborn as my daughter,” Abby mused.

“God help us,” he said tracing a pattern on her arm.

“I just hope she gets around to telling him,” Abby said, allowing herself to drift to the rhythm of his breathing. “I hope she knows we don’t get an unlimited number of chances to have the things we want. I should have taught her that.”[1]

“Some lessons can’t be taught. They just have to be lived.”

Abby nodded, before surrendering once more to sleep in the arms of a man she never expected to care for.

* * *

Clarke’s mouth was pressed against the fabric of his shirt as she held him tight around the middle.

Whenever he held her like that, he enclosed like her own skin. With their roles reversed, the height and strength of his body was too much for her to touch all at once. So she learned him in parts, the sight of his skin in different lights. The way his hand looked pressed against the skin of his neck when they play chess. The skin of his thigh when she got on her knees in the shower and took him into her mouth. The way the water made his skin glisten, bringing out new shades she could spend a lifetime uncovering.

She loved the weight of him as he held himself on his forearms and kissed her, drawing sounds from her she had never heard before. She lay fully dressed on top of him and wondered whether it was possible to get close enough to him.

The day before, he came up behind her where she examined weather models. He pressed a kiss to the hollow at the base of her throat and asked her for its medical name.[2]

“Does this have an official name?”

“Everything has an official name,” she said, struggling to maintain her composure. “It’s called a suprasternal notch.”

“Suprasternal notch,” he murmured into her skin, before pressing his lips to her shoulder. “What about this?”

“It’s ah – oh god – it’s the clavicle.”

He offered her a grin before travelling down her body, murmuring the anatomical words into her skin. He loved words. Loved to taste them. Loved the tidal pull of them. At night he read aloud from the books he collected from forgotten corners of the laboratory. He read and she listened to the sound of his voice when he spoke about people who had lived centuries earlier.

“Listen to this,” he said that night, as they lay entwined on the sofa. His voice rumbled through his chest into hers until it felt like his voice was coming from her body.

> _It was the year they fell into devastating love. Neither one could do anything except think about the other, dream about the other, and wait for letters with the same impatience they felt when they answered them._ [3]

“Devastating love,” he mused, turning the phrase over, before his arms tightened around her. “I remember the first dream I ever had about you.”

Her heart stumbled for a moment at the thought. “You’ve dreamed about me?”

“All the time. But the first one surprised me. It was after you saved Jasper. I dreamed I had a spear through my heart but I just kept walking around.”

“Pig-headed as usual,” she commented, laughing when he poked her side in retaliation.

“I came to your tent with a spear sticking out of my chest. And you just reached out and tugged it out of my chest. Without hesitation. There was no blood, nothing but a big hole in my chest. You reached out and pressed your hand over it and I woke up.”

“I dreamed about you in the mountain,” she said. “I dreamed about escaping and finding you outside trying to beat the door down.”

“I would have,” he said gravely. “If I’d known where you were nothing would have stopped me.”

“Read me another line,” she said, closing her eyes and listening as he flipped through the pages to find another one of his favourites.

> _The girl raised her eyes to see who was passing by the window, and that casual glance was the beginning of a cataclysm of love that still had not ended half a century later._ [4]

“All this cataclysm and devastation,” Clarke commented. “I can’t tell whether the writer things love is a good thing or a bad thing.”

“It’s both,” he said. “It’s like any force of nature. Overwhelming. Consuming.”

She wondered, as she traced her hand along the back of his where he held the old book, if perhaps he was speaking from experience.

“You have to hand it to them, these writers,” he said, breaking the silence once more. “They knew how to write about love and death and all of it. You’d think at least one of the might have made it onto the Ark. Maybe then we would have had something decent to read up there.”

“Nothing but scientists and engineers. No need for storytellers in space.”

“Everyone needs storytellers,” he murmured. “Someone needs to put it into words.”

“To put what into words?”

He placed the book carefully onto the ground, before turning once more to face her. He smiled gently at her, searching her face.

“Everything,” he breathed, and then he kissed her.

Long before she admitted her feelings for him to herself, Clarke had suspected he would be a good kisser. Certainly the unending line of girls outside his tent had confirmed her suspicions. But she was utterly unprepared for the experience of kissing Bellamy Blake.

He kissed the way he did everything: with his entire heart, with his entire concentration. He kissed without any sense of expectation; as if he could satisfied with doing nothing else but kissing her for the rest of his life.

It was Clarke who was impatient. While she appreciated his care for her, his patience as her injuries healed, she wanted to know him in every possible way. She wanted to know the way he looked when he was buried inside of her. She wanted to know what words he would say.

Clarke pulled back to look at him, at his hooded eyes and his face. What a thing for a face like that to belong to someone like him. What chance did she have to resist?

For her part, Clarke searched for words to tell him that would make him understand the way she felt about him. She moved forward, capturing his lips once more. As they pressed closer, closer, closer to each other, Clarke felt her heart racing in her chest as his hands touched her wherever they could reach. His shirt hit floor, followed by her own – and everywhere their skin touched a flare of passion passed through her.

“Please,” she said, not certain what she was asking for. She tugged at his pants, pulling them down until every inch of him was pressed against every inch of her.

Nothing but air between them, aware of nothing but the feeling of his lips and his hands touching her everywhere. He moved slowly, taking his time to kiss and touch her. But, she tugged at him until he hovered over her, peering down into her eyes. It was almost too much. It was not enough.

“What do you need, princess?” he said, his voice gravel.

“You,” she said, her voice cracking with desire. “All of you. Please, Bell.”

He nodded sharply, as if he didn’t trust himself to speak. Carefully, he adjusted himself, never once breaking eye contact. She wrapped her legs around his waist, urging him on. But, he was determined not to be hurried. It was as if he wanted to remember every moment.

Then he pressed a kiss to her lips and buried himself inside of her, making her gasp. For a moment, he stayed perfectly still, pressing his face into her shoulder. She wondered how it was possible to contain this much happiness.

“You’re my cataclysm, Clarke,” he said into her slick skin. “You’re all I think about. I met you and everything changed for me. Please tell me I’m not alone in feeling like this.”

“You’re not alone,” she whispered, burying her hands in his hair. “We’re in this together.”

When he moved, it was impossible to know where her body ended and his began.

* * *

Bellamy had never seen anything like it. Clarke before the Grounder army, proud and unrelenting like an queen from a forgotten age.

There on the other side of the fence, Finn stood tied to a post. The night air was filled the sound of grounders calling for his blood. They lived their lives in cause and effect. Blood must have blood. A simple calculation.

Bellamy remembered the moment they emerged from the trees – Clarke and Octavia by his side – and found Finn standing with a gun in his hand. The moment he looked at them – looked at Clarke – with that vacant smile, his eyes crazed. It was a matter of instinct for Bellamy to step in front of her. Since then, he had taken it on himself to keep an eye on her.

Bellamy stayed close to her in the quiet days before the night of the blood. They passed long nights in her tent. They talked around what had happened, not quite knowing how to confront it head on.

“The look on his face,” Clarke said, one night as she lay on her cot staring at the shadows over her head.

Bellamy sat on the ground, a pelt on his lap as he sewed a hole. “He was out of his mind. He thought - ”

“It doesn’t matter what he thought,” she interrupted, her voice almost cold. “Nothing could justify what he did. They were innocent, Bellamy. They were a village, not an army. Murphy said they were running away.”

“I understand wanting to protect someone you love,” he said, still not looking at her.

The first night, he walked into her tent without explanation. He brought her food that she left untouched and sat on the ground next to her bed. She began to expect him, leaving a lamp on the ground at the entrance to her tent.

She talked to him, at night, when everyone else was asleep. He stole glances at her while he pretended to work on other things.

“The look on his face had nothing to do with love. He looked crazy.”

“Love makes people do crazy things,” he said, examining the stitches and wondering whether she noticed the slight tremble of his hand. “Though generally not that crazy.”

She laughed in spite of herself. She enjoyed his wry humour in the darkest moments. Sometimes he even let himself believe she enjoyed him – that she found him a comfort. Perhaps she just knew he would not leave, even if she begged him to.

He left when she fell asleep, but always found an excuse to loiter outside her tent, standing guard. Abby noticed, and began sending warm drinks to him during the night. It was not something he could make sense of, this strange sign of approval from her. All he knew was he could not let anything happen to Clarke. The light of madness in Finn’s eyes was too recent in his recollection to stay away.

The truth was this: Finn had lost his mind over Clarke. One morning, Bellamy intercepted Finn walking towards her in the mess. He slammed him bodily against the wall, bracing his forearm across his neck.

“I have to speak to her,” Finn said desperately, tracing Clarke’s progress across the room. “I have to explain.”

“No,” Bellamy said, his eyes hard and dangerous. “You have to stay the hell away from her.”

Finn drew himself up. He was always one for displays of righteousness, even when Bellamy held him pinned in place. Even before Finn slept with Clarke without mentioning his girlfriend, Bellamy had an almost irrepressible desire to punch him in the face. A part of him hoped Finn would test him, give him an excuse.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” Finn spat.

Bellamy stared at him straight in the eye, unflinching. “I’m the person who will kill you if you so much as look at her in a way I don’t like.”

That said, Bellamy released Finn, rolling his eyes when the boy – and he did look like a boy when he acted like this – made a show of straightening his jacket.

“I don’t see why you even care,” Finn said. “You’ve been after the Grounders from day one.”

Bellamy itched to slam him against the wall once more. “The Grounders are not the ones I’m worried about.”

Finn froze. He looked genuinely surprised, and Bellamy felt a wave of something almost like kinship. “I would never hurt Clarke.”

“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” Bellamy said, before turning away. As he moved to return to his day, he glanced over his shoulder. “Stay the hell away from her, Spacewalker. I’m not kidding.”

He left Finn standing there, confused and uncertain. Whenever she returned to camp, he noticed Octavia’s eyes on him, tracking his movements. Seeing everything he never said out loud.

Then came the sound of drums and the Grounder army outside the gate. Another impossible ultimatum. Clarke armed with nothing more than a knife, driving it into Finn’s stomach. Ending it all.

Even while Raven screamed in his arms, Bellamy watched her progress along the enemy line, his heart in his throat. Raven fell to the ground, taking Bellamy with her. But, still he calculated the steps it would take for him to make it to her side. To save or avenge her.

The relief he felt when Lexa let her walk away with her life was almost overwhelming. For a moment, he was almost glad Raven had already brought him to his knees.

After Clarke walked back through the gates, the camp was chaos. Abby admitted Raven to the infirmary for the night, mainly to keep an eye on her. Bellamy sat with Raven in the infirmary until she fell asleep.

Clarke walked through the camp and the crowd parted as if she were radioactive. She went back to her tent, and her mother treated her there, attending to a nasty cut on her stomach, where she had walked into a spear to make a point.

He arrived at Clarke’s tent just as Abby was leaving. She stood her ground for a moment, considering him carefully. Then, she offered him a nod, and stepped aside to let him pass.

“Look after her,” Abby said, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder as she passed.

He nodded sharply, before walking into her tent.

He found her sitting on the edge of her cot, staring down at her hands stained red with Finn’s blood. Before her sat a bucket filled with water and a washcloth that her mother had probably given her. She glanced up at him, her eyes red and exhausted.

“Is Raven - ”

“She’ll be fine,” he said firmly, before carefully crossing the tent to kneel before her. Without meeting her eye, he plunged the cloth into the water and took her blood-stained hand in both of his. He cleaned her carefully. Gently.

Her voice was flat and uninflected. “She hates me.”

“She just needs some time,” he said, focusing his attention the task at hand.

Clarke watched his movements carefully. As if his actions had no bearing on her body, as if they were happening to someone else. “We always run out of time, don’t we?”

He sat back on his haunches, peering up at her face. “He was out of time the moment he killed those people, Clarke. The Grounders were never going to let him walk away.”

She met his eyes, and her usual reserve cracked. “I should have tried harder to save him.”

“You _did_ save him, Clarke,” he said, his eyes blazing. “You saved him from what they were going to do. You did not let them tear him apart. You did not let him fall down.”

She shrugged. “What does that matter, if he’s dead anyway?”

“When the fall is all there is, it matters.”[5]

She pressed her lips into a thin line, before nodding wordlessly. He noticed on the ground next to her bed there was a carefully drawn picture of the guards patrolling the gate. It was impressively detailed. He wondered about the details she noticed in them. He wondered how she would draw him if the mood ever struck her.

“I told him I love him. Before I did it.”

Bellamy swallowed, forcing himself to focus on cleaning her. “Do you?”

Her gaze was far away. “I did, I think. Before Raven. Before everything that happened.”

It took effort to keep his voice steady. “Then he was lucky. Anyone would be lucky to be loved by you.”

“I’m not sure he felt that lucky,” she said, pulling one of her hands free from his grasp to wipe her eyes with the back of her hand. But no matter how fast she wiped the tears away, they kept coming.

Without thinking, he reached out and braced his hands on her arms, ducking his head to catch her eyes. “He _was_ lucky. There was no other option, Clarke. That is on the Grounders. And Finn. That is not on you.”

Still, the tears kept falling. “Raven is never going to speak to me again.”

“She will. One day she will. I’ll make sure of it.”

At that, Clarke dissolved into tears. He pulled her towards him and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her arms wrap around his waist, almost too tight. Her body shook with sobs. In that moment he would have done anything to stop her tears. So he held her while she cried about the man she had killed, trying to ignore the ache in his chest that belonged to her. Trying to ignore the way it felt to hold her close, to run his hands through her hair, to comfort her when she was beyond comforting.

He kneeled on the floor of her tent, his arms wrapped around her, while she cried until she had no tears left. If anything, her arms clasped him even tighter than before. He waited, her hair in his face, until she was ready to let go.

“What would I do without you, Bellamy?” she murmured.

“You don’t need me. You are the strongest person I have ever met.”

She huffed a laugh into his t-shirt. “Being strong isn’t all its cracked up to be.”

“No,” he said, tightening his arms around her, just for another moment. “It’s not.”

* * *

“We need to know what we’re dealing with,” Clarke said, frowning down at the weather models and the graphs that charted the rate of radiation outside. “No amount of data will help us get to the mansion if we look outside and find an enormous wall of rubble.”

Bellamy crossed his arms, narrowing his eyes at her from across the table. “It’s too dangerous.”

“If it’s too dangerous now, it will be too dangerous in a few weeks when we run out of food.”

The laboratory was never intended to be used to track what was happening outside. It was designed as the last hope escape into the atmosphere. It was designed to support life in a cataclysm until the moment they left for space. Once the blast door was closed, no one was expected it to open again.

But each day the pile of supplies they kept by the kitchen dwindled. Even at half-rations they would last no more than a month. At night, Bellamy traced with concern the ribs growing visible under Clarke’s skin. He tried to convince her to eat more – said he was use to going without after sharing his rations with Octavia for more than decade – but she was stubborn.

For months, they had planned to relocate to the mansion. To find new supplies and wait there until the radiation diffused enough for them to search for somewhere that would support life.

Bellamy stared intently at the table between them, as if trying to draw another conclusion from the data they were presented with. But the choices were limited. The radiation levels outside were lethal.

“You’re right,” Bellamy said, prompting Clarke to look up in surprise. “I’ll need a space suit. Maybe a length of rope in case visibility is bad.”

He nodded to himself as he spoke, as if writing a shopping list of things he would need to walk outside into the radiation soaked earth. Clarke stood frozen in place, her pen hanging in the air above a chart.

“You’re not going out there,” she said flatly.

He paused, glancing up at her slowly. “What are you talking about?”

She crossed her arms. “You’re not going out there. I am.”

She knew by now how he looked when he was angry – the thunderous expression, the controlled movements, the way his mouth looked when it was biting back a shout. Too carefully, he placed the chart in his hand on the table. Then he pressed his hands flat against it as well.

“What are you talking about?”

“We don’t know if your transplant worked. We know for a fact mine did.”

“You died,” Bellamy said. “You died in my arms and I restarted your heart.”

“And that happened with marrow from an actual night-blood. We have no idea if it worked.”

His mouth was a thin line. “I thought if it was too dangerous now, it would be too dangerous in a few weeks when we run out of food.”

Clarke gestured dismissively, before returning to the map. “I have a plan.”

“Oh, you have a plan,” he said sarcastically. “And let me guess, that plan involves you putting your life on the line. Alone.”

“I’ll find the rover,” she said simply, still focusing on her task. “I’ll get it started. I’ll give you another transfusion and you’ll wear a suit. We’ll drive to the mansion when the time comes.”

“So that’s the plan? You go outside by yourself and see what’s left. You stay out there for hours to get the rover started. And I just stay here and hope you don’t pass out and die on your way back.”

“There’s no other option.”

“You’ve decided.”

She glanced up at the anger in his voice. “It’s a good plan.”

“It’s not about the plan.”

Sometimes when he stood still he looked like he had been carved from rock. He was that permanent, that unbending. The sight of his stubbornness always awakened her own. They crashed against each other like tectonic plates, shaking the building.

It would always come back to this for them. This willingness – desire almost – to die for each other, to protect each other from any harm. It was what made him stay behind. It was what made her ask him to drill into her bone. The anger was not anger, not really. It was fear dressed up as fury, and looking at his stubborn face she felt it too.

“Then what’s your problem?”

“You say we’re in this together,” he said. “But you still make every decision by yourself.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, sharply. “It’s not a decision if there’s only one option.”

“That’s always how you see it,” he spat. “You make the call and then you tell me that was the only call you could make.”

“That’s not true. Every decision we’ve made, we made together.”

“No, we didn’t. We decided the small things together. We decided how to lead and when to send out a hunting party and when to tell the council to go float itself. But when it comes to the big decisions, when it comes to life and death - you have always decided that by yourself. You decide what you’re willing to risk. You decide what happens, and then you expect me to just fall into line.”

A flash of hurt passed over her face. Not because she did not see the truth in it, but because she feared there might be some truth in it. But there was no room for the thought in the midst of one of their great fights. This was a matter of life and death. She could withstand his anger, if it would keep him alive.

“It’s not like that now.”

He walked around the table, until they were within grasping distance. But up close she saw the cracks in his anger, where his fear showed through.

“Nothing’s changed,” he said, his chest heaving. “You _still_ decide everything. The only difference is that now you know how I feel about you.”

“Bellamy - ” she said, feeling the fight drain from her at the sight of his hands shaking at his side. Watching him fall apart was terrifying. Impossible.

“You know what it would do to me. If something happened to you. You know that. But every plan you make involves you deciding alone to risk your life.”

“There’s no good option here,” she said more gently. “But we know I can survive out there. I know you want to be the one who saves the day. You always want to be the hero. But, it’s too much of a risk for you. We haven’t even tested your resistance to radiation yet.”

To her surprise, he took a step forward. Then another. He reached forward and put his hands on her shoulders. She glanced up into his eyes, finding them blazing with emotion.

“My resistance to radiation won’t matter if something happens to you. It would kill me Clarke. If something happened to you, it would kill me.”

Her voice wavered with emotion to match his. “We are going to have to risk our lives again, Bellamy. That’s just the life we live.”

“I know that, do you think I don’t know that?” he asked, his voice shaking. “I’m not saying we never get to take a risk again. I’m saying you don’t get to decide by yourself. I get a say.”

She reached up to clutch his hands, still resting on her shoulders. It was too much, the feelings he drew out of her. The way he refused to be silent, the way he resisted her at every turn. He talked about the decisions she made, but surely he saw in himself that same terrifying instinct to throw his life away.

“I’m afraid all the time,” she said, her voice thick. “I plan and I decide things because I’m afraid I’m going to lose you. The way I’ve lost everyone who has ever mattered to me.”

“Clarke - ”

“No,” she said, tears streaming down her face as she held his hands in place. “You always know what to say, Bellamy. You know how to talk about how you feel, and what you want. But I don’t know how to talk about it. I never have. I decide alone because I’m used to being alone. But I don’t want to be alone again, Bellamy. Not now.”

“You’re not alone now, Clarke. That’s what you told me. So stop acting like you have to do everything by yourself.”

She shook her head dumbly and he lifted his hands to wipe away her tears.

“Promise me,” he said desperately. “Promise me you won’t do anything crazy.”

She wrapped both her arms around him. Without looking at his face, she murmured against his chest. “I promise.”

“Good,” he said softly, returning her embrace. “That’s good.”

* * *

“Start with Bellamy Blake,” her mother said and the world had stopped.

In the throne room in Polis, during the battle that felt like the last one. Abby spoke in that same matter-of-fact tone she used with patients. She might as well have had Clarke on the operating table, her insides on display for a room full of medical trainees. Truth was her scalpel, and the first thought Clarke was this: _Of course she knows._ Exposed at last – and before her invisible enemy at that – there was almost a relief.

Those were her thoughts as she sat in a dim room in Arkadia, while outside her people worked frantically as the clock ticked towards the apocalypse. She went through their records painstakingly, their medical histories, their skills, their weaknesses. Bellamy sat at her side, ready as always to help her make another impossible choice. Together, they debated the perfect composition of one hundred that would ensure the survival of humanity. Under the table her knee brushed his and she felt foolish for noticing.

“You need to rest,” she said softly when he rubbed his hands over his eyes once more.

He straightened his back. “I’m fine.”

“Bellamy,” she said, touching his knee. He looked up from the list they pored over to meet her eyes in surprise. “You can sleep.”

He offered her a crooked smile. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“You should try,” she said, aware suddenly that her hand still lingered on his leg.

“ _You_ should try,” he said, the smile fading from his face as he took in her pale features, her pinched expression. He reached an arm around the back of her chair, as if wanting to hug her but not quite daring. “We don’t have to decide everything tonight.”

“Yes we do,” she said, closing her eyes when she felt his hand on her back through the cotton of her shirt. “If we let ourselves think about it for too long we’ll realise how awful it is. If we do it tonight - ”

She trailed off, looking at him and willing him to understand the way always seemed to.

“We can put it in a drawer and forget about it,” he said, nodding to himself. “Then let’s finish this.”

“No,” she shook her head and gestured at the sofa. “You need to sleep, because I need you to be at your best to make me finish this list. Please.”

Whatever he saw on her face convinced him she would not relent. So he just squeezed her shoulder and made his way to the sofa that was a little too small for him. Everything in the room was too small for him. She tried to imagine him prowling the hallways on the Ark. She wondered how he suppressed that fighter spirit of his. How they could have lived in the same place in the sky and how she had never noticed him before.

It seemed strange, knowing him now, that on the Ark she had never sensed his presence. The thought of living without him was far most strange than idea that she might one day have just stood up, walked to Delta Station and knocked on his door.

She wrote her list – she made the logical choices – but every now and then she looked at him lying there, perfectly still on the sofa. She usually stole glances, peered at him covertly when she had a reasonable excuse. For him to be still was a rare gift. She stared at him and thought about the dying days of earth, and all the things she never seemed to be able to say to him. Finally there were two spaces left. The fact neither of them felt they deserved to be on the list was unspoken and assumed. But, there were two spaces left.

The end was coming. Clarke played it out in her mind. They would complete the work of survival. She would say goodbye to her mother and he would say goodbye to his sister. Kane would close the door. He would spare her mother from closing the door on her child. The rest of them, the ones left outside, would die.

Bellamy would want to stay to protect them. To make sure no one outside attempted to infiltrate the safe haven, or even extract revenge for not being chosen. It was the smart call, the call that at any other time she would make too. But, for a quiet moment, with the world turning outside and him breathing inside, she let herself imagine what would happen if she let herself admit what she really wanted.

He would want to stay, but perhaps she could convince him to leave. Perhaps, if she asked him to, he would leave with her. Sometimes, she thought it was what he wanted – just the two of them, living in a wooden house he would build for them. A garden where she would grow healing herbs and the berries that made the best paints. Sometimes, she thought he wanted a lifetime with her.

There wouldn’t be time to build or grow anything. Death would come and destroy anyone left in its path. But to have even a few days with him would be worth it, to go to bed with him and to wake up with him. To be silent and draw him while he read his favourite books. Just to be close to him, at last. That was a lifetime of happiness.

Perhaps she would be able to convince him to die with her instead of with a gun his hand.

Staying outside was a death sentence. Death would come in fire or sickness. There was no avoiding it.

She glanced at him again, still tense even in sleep. How could she watch him die choking on radiation? How could she watch him disappear right in front of her? How could she stand it?

And what about _them_? The ninety-eight people on the list whose lives would be saved but who would have to live with the knowledge of all those outside dying for their privilege. They would need someone strong. Someone unbending. Someone like him.

She turned back to the list. It was a fantasy, really. Just a dream. She could never let him die with her.

She wrote his name with such care and focus that she didn’t notice him wake up. Tears filled her vision as she realised there was no way she could write her name on this list. She would give him to them, give him to the future, and that would have to be enough.

But, she cried for the cabin that would never be built. For the garden that would never grow. For the lifetime of happiness she might have had with him if it were another time and place. Even for the few days she might have stolen if she was the sort of person capable of asking him to go with her to die.

“If I’m on that list, you’re on that list,” he said, his voice steady and certain. As if it were a fact. As if she were right to believe that their futures were entwined.

“I can’t.”

“Write it down. Write it down, or I will.”

When she shook her head, he simply reached for the paper and wrote it down. Then he stared down at her, at if waiting for her to tell him what happened next. But, if he was looking for answers, she had none.

“What now?” she asked.

“Now we put it away and hope we never have to use it.”

For a moment, the thought of the future stirred inside of her. “You still have hope?”

“We still breathing?” he said, and then he pressed his hand to her shoulder. Overcome, she pressed her cheek to it, pulled him closer. The way she always wanted to, but rarely dared. “Get some sleep. We’re taking turns, remember?”

When he walked away, a primal sort of panic filled her, as if he might disappear forever if she let him out of her sight.

“Wait - ”

He turned around, and her feelings stirred once more within her. She walked towards him, slowly. Giving him time to step away. But he just stood there, not quite meeting her eye. As if he were at her mercy.

“Stay,” she said, before she lost her nerve. “Stay with me.”

Perhaps tonight – just once, just for a moment – she could forget about the end of the world and let herself dream.

Something like surprise crossed his his face as he stepped back towards her. “Clarke, I - ”

“I won’t be able to sleep alone,” she said, quickly. “If I don’t know where you are, I mean.”

Something flashed across his face, gone before she could quite name it. If pressed, she might say it looked something like temptation. He looked tempted. To lie back down on the tiny sofa and draw her into his arms. Tempted to press himself right up against the line they had drawn in the early days. A line they always stepped over the moment they felt they were in danger of losing each other.

He looked at the sofa contemplatively as she came within touching distance of him, as if calculating logistics. “I don’t think it's big enough for both of us.”

“No,” she said softly, before reaching out and clasping his hand. She wondered at her nerve as his dark eyes zeroed in on her. Any uncertainty she felt dissipated when he looked at her like that. “But, my cot is. Big enough.”

Her pulse racing, she wondered whether he would make light of it, pass it off as a joke. Slowly, as if waiting for her to think better of it, his fingers clasped hers. For a moment, he looked down at their joined hands, the way the shadows played on their skin. He lifted her hand and pressed it to his chest, where his heart thundered. She drew in closer until she could feel the warmth of his chest and her hand and the lifetime they should have had.

He seemed to be fighting a short and doomed battle with himself. Then, his shoulders relaxed, as if coming to a firm conclusion at last. With her hand still pressed to his chest, he met her eyes once more. Whatever his answer, she knew that in that moment he wanted to say: _yes_.

“Clarke - ”

An explosion from the worksite outside broke the silence the moment, reminded them both once more of the long list of decisions that awaited them. The threat of extinction.

She gave him a rueful look, before she pulled her hand away from his chest, away from the beating of his heart, away from the future that was only a dream anyway.

“Duty calls,” she said, hiding the regret behind her usual business-like mask.

He nodded, straightening his back, ready to meet the next crisis. Shoulder to shoulder, they strode from the room and possibility of the moment, ready to return to the cruel business of saving the world

* * *

He would be furious with her when he found out. She knew that. Perhaps he would never forgive her.

Somewhere in the laboratory he put himself through his paces, keeping his body strong even as their food disappeared. There was nothing for him to fight, at least nothing he could overpower with force. But, still each afternoon he pushed himself to breaking point.

And today, when he finished, he would find a picture on the sofa where they slept, where they held each other and where she lost herself in him.

She drew it at night, in secret, when her love for him threatened to overwhelm her. She drew it with all her passion and skill. She drew the cabin where she hoped they might one day live, she drew a garden where she would grow things that he would cook, she drew them standing in front of the life they would build together, foreheads pressed together. More intimate than a kiss.

At the bottom, she signed her name and wrote, _I am willing to risk my life for the future I want to have with you._

She would be gone before he noticed. Outside. The world it was easy to forget when Bellamy kissed her. She would go outside and see what was left of the world. She would find the rover. It was the only plan that would keep him safe.

Even if he hated her when he found out she had lied to him, he would be safe. She crept down the stairs, listening out for the sound of his footfalls.

But when she reached the row of hooks where two space suits usually hung, should found only one. Their one unbroken helmet was also gone, leaving behind the one with a crack in the glass that she had worn when fleeing praimfaya.

There, on the low bench below the space suits was a note in his artless handwriting. The same handwriting that had written her name on a list of people who deserved to survive the end of the world.

She picked it up and read, veins filled with ice.

> _Dear Clarke,_
> 
> _I know you will be angry with me. But, I know you. You lied when you promised you would not risk your life for me. It’s one of the things that makes you so extraordinary._
> 
> _You’ll call me a hypocrite, or say I’m not using my head. But for once my head and my heart are in lock step. We need to plan for the future, and the only future I want is one with you in it. I knew you would go out there the moment you had the chance. So I lied, too._
> 
> _I know you'll be afraid. But,_ _I promise to come back to you. I took a rope to lead me home, just in case. Like Theseus in the labyrinth.[6]_
> 
> _So, this is not goodbye._
> 
> _You think I always know what to say, but I struggled with this note for a long time. Words could never do justice to the way I feel about you. Even the words of those great authors fall short. So I will say it as simply and clearly as I can, and hope that you’ll read poetry between the lines._
> 
> _I love you, Clarke. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. A lifetime with you would not be enough. But it’s a good start._
> 
> _I’ll see you soon._
> 
> _Love,  
>  Bell_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I love to end on a cliffhanger! I hope you enjoyed the chapter. Thank you for reading, reviewing and leaving kudos. I blame your kind words for prompting me to keep writing more of this. 
> 
> -  
> [1] Grey’s Anatomy.  
> [2] Inspired by Michael Ondaatje, The English Patient  
> [3] and [4] Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Love in the Time of Cholera  
> [5] “The Lion in Winter” (1968)  
> [6] The minotaur lived in a maze on the island of Crete under the rule of King Minos. King Minos would send a navy to attack Athens. Desperate, the King of Athens offered King Minos a deal. Athens would send 7 boys and 7 girls to Crete each year to be eaten by the monster in exchange for peace. Unable to live with the deal, Prince Theseus of Athens went to Crete to kill the minotaur. Before he entered the labyrinth, Ariadne, the princess of Crete, gave him a ball of string to help him find his way out of the maze.


	8. How much the heart can hold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There were moments in his life when everything changed. The first night he held his sister as a newborn, trying to stop her from crying while his mother slept. The night he took Octavia to that stupid party. Shooting Jaha. Telling Charlotte to slay her demons. Pulling the lever. Working for Pyke. Decisions he made that changed his life forever. For better or worse. Mainly for worse.
> 
> He had made so many mistakes. But, there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. Staying behind with her was the best decision he had ever made in his life. Whatever happened to them, whether or not they survived – loving Clarke Griffin was worth it.
> 
> He surveyed the landscape, so filled with love for her that it burned. And there, as if the landscape was offering him a hand from a life raft, he caught sight of a mound of sand obscuring metal. A glimmer of something in the pale light.
> 
> He surged forward. It was mostly buried in detritus, its doors obscured by sand and dirt. But it was there. The rover. And with it, the faintest possibility of survival."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it has been a while between updates, but I felt we could all do with a morale boost in these difficult times. 
> 
> This chapter came out longer than I anticipated. I ultimately decided it needed to be split in two. I hope you enjoy this first instalment - let's call it the beginning of the end.

> "Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much a heart can hold."
> 
> \- Zelda Fitzgerald

Death was a constant companion on the Ark.

The last of the generation born on earth carried it with them from the ground, the faint echoes of the screams of those who perished in fire. Each generation since was defined by a single motive: to ward off death for another generation.

But, death was everywhere in space. No more than a hand-width away, looking back through the window. All it would take was a crack, a broken part, or the life support system sparking out and death would find them in minutes. The dark vacuum of space would see to it.

Growing up in space, Bellamy rarely thought about space. Perhaps it is human nature to be unable to think about the most obvious causes of death. There were threats enough prowling the hallways of the Ark.

He was ten years old the first time he understood what it meant to be floated.

Sometimes on the way home from school he would loiter by the big window near their quarters, relishing a few moments of being alone. He stood there, staring out at the stars as if they were no more interesting than the surface of a workbench. Then, without warning, a streak of something shot out from the Ark, making him jump.

The body arced downward, propelled to a great distance by the force of the atmosphere shift and then by the lack of anything else getting in its way. But, Bellamy distinctly remembered the sight of long brown hair floating above the pale body. A woman. Dead in an instant.

He staggered away from the window, glancing around as if expecting to be in trouble.

There was something taboo about witnessing the reality of the enticing, forbidden word: _floating._ It sounded almost peaceful. But the sight of a body turned into a bullet and disappearing into endless space was anything but peaceful.

That night his dreams were filled with that single image of a body cut loose from any context. But, he never spoke of it again. 

Bellamy knew people who were floated. Mostly, they were they died for small, explainable crimes. For stealing medicine or trading in a part that came loose from their tin-kettle home in the sky. For any number of small infractions that in another time or place might have been overlooked. In the sky, it seemed like everything was punishable by death.

Of course, not everyone was blameless.

When Bellamy was fifteen, they floated a mechanic who lived down the hallway from Bellamy and Aurora - and his little sister secreted away under the floorboards. One night after the man finished his shift, on the way back to his quarters, he assaulted a thirteen-year-old girl.

They looked for him for three days, but he knew how to disappear into the bowels of the ship. Unluckily for him, a group of young men from Delta – rough men, the men Bellamy had grown up with – found him before the guards. They beat him half to death before handing him over. Justice delivered by a gang, but justice nonetheless.

Bellamy watched him, slumped between two guards as they carried him through the airlock back to Alpha. His eyes were swollen shut and there was blood running down his chin. Even at fifteen, Bellamy knew that if he had been the one who found the man, he would have killed him.

That darkness of his: the only companion he had during long dark nights on the ship.

Crime was not new on the Ark. No matter how small the infraction, most of the time, people accepted their lot. Each decision the council made was about ensuring the continuation of humanity. There was no higher priority than that. So if occasionally someone was floated for stealing medicine for their sick child, it was a price they were, collectively, willing to pay. At least, that is what they taught.

Then there were the moments when the tension that was always just under the surface of their community would rise up into a force that terrified anyone with an iota of power on the ship. He remembered Diana Sydney standing on an upturned crate, calling for insurrection when the guards carried away an old woman who stole food from the mess to give back to families without enough credits to eat.

He was ten years old. Alone while his mother occupied herself with legitimate and less legitimate ways of making money. The crowd pressed in around him, stirred to action by her words. He felt the anger rise in them as if they were part of one body. She harnessed their anger, focused it to a fine point and urged them to sling it towards the Council.

The night Diana Sydney was elected Chancellor, the three of them – Octavia, Bellamy, Aurora – sat up late into the night. They laughed and talked, elated by their mother’s joy. Octavia was too young to understand what it meant, but sitting up late into the night as a treat.

“Things are going to change for us,” Aurora said, her eyes shining with something like hope as she watched Octavia playing on the floor. “You’ll see. We won’t have to hide forever.”

Bellamy was not someone who sat comfortably with hope. He preferred to face reality. To butt up against impossible odds. Better to confound expectations than to expect anything to be given to you.

His mother slept for three days when Jaha won re-election. She lay unmoving in her bunk while Bellamy looked after Octavia and tried to wheedle Aurora into eating. He loved his mother and resented her in equal measure. But even when the resentment threatened to overpower him, he cared for her.

But, he also understood her. Aurora suffered because she believed things might change for her. Bellamy laboured under no such delusion. Even when the guards accepted him, he waited for the other shoe to drop.

He worked harder than anyone else because he never expected anything to come easily. It made him a better student and it made him a more determined person. No one ever got close to him on the Ark. He made sure of that. But, he was surprised at how few people tried. There was something in him that was too remote, too guarded, too lonely to ever dare to connect.

Then they found out about Octavia. And life changed fundamentally and forever.

The same gulf surrounded him, but for the first time in his life people saw him. Or at least, saw an outline of him prowling the halls. Their eyes followed him wherever he went in the Ark. They whispered about his guard uniform. Like him, they waited for Kane and his goons to take him away. To throw him in jail with his sister and his mother.

 _Sister,_ they whispered. _Can you believe it?_

Days passed. Then a week. Nothing happened.

He walked through the Ark as a free man. He ignored the way conversations seemed to end when he came to close. He returned to an empty quarters. He lay on his bunk and remembered the way he once dreamed of having the space for himself. Now, it was empty and only the ghosts kept his company.

He asked Lieutenant Shumway if he could attend his mother’s floating. He wore his guard uniform. Within days, he would hand it over to Shumway and begin life as a janitor. Everyone knew he was on borrowed time. Most assumed the only questions was whether the sorry business ended in his death or imprisonment. The die was cast but had yet to land.

But that day, he stood in his uniform – the one he had worn with such pride – before the man who had exposed Octavia. He had begged for her life and his face was impassive and unmoved. He had begged for mercy and was denied. And here he was again, begging.

Shumway leaned back in the chair, regarding him. “You ask for a lot of favours, cadet.”

“I’m not going to be a cadet for much longer,” Bellamy said flatly. “You and I both know that.”

“You want to break protocol,” he said, his face showing no emotion. “Now, when you have very little to bargain with.”

“This is not a bargain,” Bellamy said, hoping the man did not notice his hand tightened into a fist. “I know you will not hesitate to pull that lever. All I’m asking is for you to let me be there.”

“Why should I do that, Blake?”

There was something Bellamy knew about himself. There was something he had in common with Diana Sydney, despite his recent magnificent failure at convincing the man before him to yield. There was one thing he knew how to do. Even on the days when he was so full of self-loathing, he almost choked. He knew how to draw the emotions out of another person. He knew how to make them agree with him. He knew how to make them want to please him.

He knew how to convince people of anything. Except of course the one time he needed to. He would not fail again.

“Because you have power,” he said grimly, pitching his voice so it rumbled in his chest. “For now. But you and I know that there is change in the air. They have had every opportunity to arrest me. But they haven’t done it. Things change. You and I both know that. And one day I might be the one deciding whether or not to show _you_ mercy.”

For a moment, they held each other’s eyes. Shumway looked away first, something like fear crossing his face. Bellamy felt a grim satisfaction at the sight.

“I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you,” Shumway said, before straightening his back and attempting to regain some of the authority that seemed to have deserted him. “Fine. You can be there. But if you even think about trying something, you’ll go straight to the Skybox.”

“Thank you,” Bellamy said, the words like ash on his tongue. He turned to leave, determined to get as far away as possible from this room and this man who far too often decided the future course of his life.

“If you’re looking for someone to blame, you should look in the mirror,” Shumway said. “You took your secret sister to a dance, Blake. You pulled out your weapon. You gave me no choice.”

It was not as if the same thoughts had not occurred to him, late at night while he sat in the silent living quarters, staring at the spare furniture, the part of the floor that lifted – where Octavia had hidden for most of her life. He was to blame. Just him. The choices he made had led to this point, to the great emptiness of his life that gaped open before him.

“There’s always a choice,” Bellamy said grimly, before leaving the man behind.

The next day, Shumway sent word for him to come to see his mother put to death.

The long hallway, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty hallway, the glowing buttons that masked the violence of the act. The glass between the prisoner and the community that would put them to death. The minutes passed in a blur.

Aurora Blake stood proud and unbending on the other side of the airlock. She looked the way she always looked. Unforgiving. Exactly like him. The parts he hated about her were the parts he hated about himself. But he loved and forgave her far more than he could ever love or forgive himself.

She did not seem surprised to see him, but Bellamy knew that she would have hidden her surprise either way. Just like he would have. In the end, all either of them had was their pride.

Bellamy stood just as silently, his back straight and his gaze unbroken on his mother. Shumway seemed to be waiting for him to do something, to say something, to explain why he was so insistent about being here.

But, all that happened was mother and son looked at each other silently on either side of the glass. They looked at each other without changing their expressions. They stood in silence because between them sat a lifetime of regret that could never come close to being addressed.

Without speaking, he said: _I’m here_ and _I’m sorry_.

Without speaking, she said: _I know_ and _Take care of your sister._

Aurora nodded, as if she were the one giving the order for the door to open into the vacuum of space. He flinched when the hatch opened and she disappeared. There one minute. Gone the next.

Shumway glanced at him, the silence between echoing in the hallway.

“I hope you got what you came here for,” he said, not unkindly before he turned and strode down the hallway back to his life. Just another day for him. Bellamy walked the hallways back to his quarters in a daze. No one stopped him. No one spoke to him. People rarely did.

It was not until the door closed behind him – and he was alone in the quarters that had never seemed big enough when it was filled with the people he loved most – that he let himself breakdown.

He wept for the mistakes he had made. He wept for his own weakness. He wept that a part of him still hoped he might be spared from the consequences of his actions. He should have tried to save her. He could have done something to prevent her death. After all, he was bigger than Shumway. More determined to win, with more to lose in that moment. He could have overpowered the lieutenant and disappeared into the same vents that had sheltered so many before.

Perhaps if it were just his life in the balance he would have. But, there was Octavia to think about. His sister who had never spent a night away from him in her entire life until she disappeared completely. All she left behind was a toy rabbit he had bought in exchange for his rations.

He lay there, alone in the world and surrounded by ghosts. He lay alone and vowed never to allow another person he loved to die.

* * *

The world outside was leeched of colour. There was a haze of red – the air filled with dust disturbed during the wave. The lush green of the world had disappeared. Replaced with a world in sepia, like a faded photograph in the archives.

Through the airlock Clarke could see an oily length of rope tied to a vent just outside the airtight door. And beyond, out of view, Bellamy was searching for a rover that might have been destroyed with the rest of the world. Searching in a world without colour with nothing but a space suit between him and an atmosphere filled with radiation.

Clarke was shocked when she read his note. Not because it was surprising for Bellamy to do something stupid and heroic. No, this was exactly the sort of thing he did. Risking everything to save the people he loved. That was who he was, and after reading the note she knew for sure she had somehow become a member of that small and exclusive club.

He had written it down. Somewhere in this building that had become their entire world, he had bent his head over a piece of paper and written the words: _I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you._ He loved her. So he tied a rope to a piece of corroded metal to make sure he could find his way back to her.

She was going to have to kill him when she finally found him.

What surprised her was not that he had decided to risk his life for her. What surprised her was how completely he understood her. How well he knew her, how easily he saw through her deception. Usually people took her at face value, never looked too closely. To be understood for the first time in her life was truly shocking.

But, what was even more shocking than that was the dreams that began to take shape in her mind when she read those words. Because Bellamy Blake loved her, in spite of everything she had done. The thought came to her in waves, shaking her foundations. She found herself imagining the future she had drawn for them. Dreaming things she had never been able to put into words. Thoughts she had never dared to have. It was exactly as he said: a lifetime with him would not be enough.

“But it’s a good start,” she said aloud, before nodding to herself, pulling on her broken helmet.

She had done the best she could to repair it, using surgical tape and lamenting the loss of vital medical supplies. But there was never any option other than to go after him. He might be Bellamy Blake, filled with heroic impulses to die for the people he loved, but she was Clarke Griffin. She was not a swooning damsel. He wanted to save her, so she was just going to have to save him back.

Nodding decisively, she pressed the button that released the airlock, the rush of air reminding her of the day her father died. Panic filled her chest like a drop of ink in water at the memory. Primal fear that the day would end with her standing once more over a body of the person who mattered most to her in the world. All that intelligence, all that passion, all the pieces that made him Bellamy, stripped away until he was no more than a body, eyes staring blankly.

Could he ever be reduced to no more than that to her? Could she even feel the points where he ended and she began anymore?

She stepped out into the ruined landscape. Even through her helmet she could sense the thin air, the animal sense of her body telling her to flee. Night-blood might heal her if she got back in time, but it could not prevent the radiation from taking hold. Logic told her to return to the safety of the lab, but the mysterious tide inside her tugged her in his direction, the way it always did. Logic never came into it.

There was nothing living as far as she could see. Nothing but death and dust – and far off, a storm brewing. The rope at her feet disappeared into the haze only meters before her. With every step she stumbled, drawn further away from safety. Drawn towards him.

Fear and sadness at the world stripped bare filled her. But, even then the sight of his rope was a tonic, a promise. The answer to a problem solved long ago. A sad story told in better days.

He told her about the minotaur one day when they walked through the woods near Arkadia in search of berries that could be made into medicine. Back before the richness of the earth was destroyed in a wave of fire. It was before the mountain and the impossible decisions that came next. After she discovered he had survived the battle at the drop-ship, after she had escaped the mountain, after she clutched him like a raft in front of the whole camp.

Sometimes the memory of his arms wrapping around her would come over her without warning. She would be working around the camp, helping her mother, consoling a child who visited the medical bay. Then she would remember the firm lines of his back, the strength of his arms as they wrapped around her. The way his breathed as he let himself hug her, as if he hadn’t drawn breath since she was carried off by the Mountain Men.

In those moments, he would occur to her all over again and she would forget what she was doing, find herself standing there with a medical instrument in her hand and no idea how it got there.

Some days she would catch sight of him across the camp, always busy, never taking a break. But then their eyes would meet and he would stop for a moment to smile at her. In those moments the entire camp went quiet and all she could do was watch him. It was easier at a distance, when she was not distracted by the warm presence of him by her side.

It terrified her, this thing between them that always threatened to boil over. So she pressed it down and ignored it, occupying herself with the serious business of keeping them alive.

An old conversation with Lincoln prompted her to propose the expedition. For weeks she tried to convince her mother to let her go and explore new lands to the west, where the medicinal plants were particularly potent. They needed medicine, she argued. She needed protection, her mother responded.

It was a familiar argument, one they had while doing other things. That day, while mending a trainee guard who had cut his forearm while building a fence under Bellamy’s watchful gaze. He stood next to the boy, watching carefully as Abby stitched his arm. Showing no sign that he was listening to Clarke as she laid out her argument again.

“I’m the only one who will know what to look for.”

“I would know,” Abby argued, carefully placing the next stitch as the boy winced and Bellamy watched stone-faced, waiting for it to be over. He pressed his hand to the boy’s shoulder and squeezed when he winced at the next stitch.

Without thinking about it, Clarke walked over to the other side of the bed and took the boy’s hand. She smiled down at him gently and felt him squeeze tight.

She glanced up and found Bellamy’s hot gaze on her from across the bed, something inscrutable written on his face. Heat filled her, as if they were connected by a circuit. She forgot her point, forgot what she was saying. Until suddenly she realised that her mother was also staring at her, staring at _them_. Not for the first time, she suspected her mother saw far more than Clarke would like her to.

Clarke shook her head to clear it, releasing the boy’s hand, stepping away from the bed.

“The camp can’t be without a doctor,” Clarke retorted, picking up the lost thread of her argument.

“You can’t go alone, Clarke. It’s too dangerous.”

“I’ll go with her,” Bellamy said firmly, addressing Abby. Clarke glanced up at him in surprise.

“You can’t leave – people here need you.”

“I’ll go,” he said again, his voice brooking no argument.

Clarke crossed her arms over her chest, annoyed to be spoken about as if she wasn’t present. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

Both Abby and Bellamy ignored her communicating silently. Then, to Clarke’s surprise, Abby nodded. She signed off on their mission that day.

They left the camp early and walked for hours. She didn’t know at the time that it would be one of the few peaceful times they would ever share. Hours when she found excuses to touch his arm and he stole looks at her when he thought she was concentrating on a plant or the road ahead. They toed the edge of this thing between them, not quite daring to reach for it. Their hands brushed and they both pretended not to notice.

When they reached a clearing, Bellamy gestured for them to put down their packs and rest. They sat close together, in a small patch of light, surrounded by trees reaching far over their head. The sky above was bluer than blue and the sun warmed them. As she examined the map Lincoln had once drawn, she noticed again that he was staring at her. She glanced up, met his eyes and felt her heart clench.

“What?” she asked, pretending to be annoyed at his scrutiny but fooling neither of them.

“Nothing,” he said, smiling and letting his hand trail the grass by his side. “Just the look on your face when you concentrate.”

"This is important," she retorted, glancing down at the map on her lap. “Would you prefer we just wandered blindly?”

He tugged a blade of grass and offered her another coy smile. It was rare for him to be so relaxed. “I’m not afraid of getting lost with you, Princess.”

She wondered if he could hear the way her heart stuttered and then hammered in her chest. But if he noticed the flush on her cheek he didn’t let on.

“You should be,” she said lightly. “I’m terrible at map reading.”

He chuckled, closing his eyes and turning his face to the sunlight. He looked younger in this light, alone with her, far from the responsibilities of camp and the judgments of the council. “Do you know the story of Theseus and the minotaur?”

“What the hell is a minotaur?”

“It’s a terrible beast – part man, part bull – born when Poseidon bewitched the wife of the king of Crete to fall in love with a bull. The minotaur was placed at the centre of a labyrinth designed by the master craftsman Daedalus. Each year, King Minos insisted that seven men and seven women from Athens be drawn by lot, sent to Crete and devoured by the monster.

“For years, the people of Athens were terrorised. Until finally, the prince Theseus volunteered to slay the beast. Of course, this was not a simple matter, because even if he were successful at killing the beast, he would still have to navigate his way out of the maze.”

Clarke found herself scooting closer to him, drawn in by the drama that always grew in his voice when he spoke of heroes.

“So what did he do?” she prompted.

Bellamy smiled at her impatience. “He didn’t do anything; sometimes fate decides. And the moment Theseus set foot on Crete, the daughter of King Minos fell in love with him. The princess Ariadne gave him a ball of string to lead him back to her.

“So, Theseus killed the minotaur and escaped with the princess. Only to abandon her on an island at the request of a goddess.”

There was a beat of silence. 

“Wow,” Clarke said after a moment of silence. “That was a terrible story.”

Bellamy turned his body to face her. He always seemed so _interested_ in what she said. Even back when he couldn’t stand her. “It’s got all the elements of a great story – love, adventure, heartbreak, bestiality.”

“Let's not delve into why you believe no story is complete without bestiality,” she said drily, raising an eyebrow at him. “Let's focus on the fact that Theseus left her, even after she saved him.”

Bellamy shrugged. “He did it because Athena told him to. He felt he had no choice. It wasn't easy. He was so upset about leaving her behind that he forgot to send his father the signal they agreed to show that he had survived, so his father threw himself off a cliff and died.”

“That’s even worse,” Clarke cried, glaring at him in mock outrage. “A great story should have a happy ending.”

“Great stories aren’t meant to be happy,” he said, cutting his eyes away from her. “They’re supposed to teach you something.”

“And what does this sad story teach us, professor?”

A shadow passed overhead and the little clearing darkened. As happy as he had looked in the sun, he always looked more himself in darkness. The escaping light sobered his mood and when he looked at her, there was no hint of levity.

“To use your head rather than your heart,” he said seriously. “Not to be blinded by happiness or sadness.”

“What about you?” she asked, surprising herself with her daring. “Is your story happy or sad?”

His expression darkened. But, when he spoke his voices was carefully neutral. “People don’t become like me and Octavia because of happy stories.”

With that, the time to rest was over. They walked the rest of the way in silence.

Looking back now, any hint of blue sky hidden by the detritus of human life disappearing once more, Clarke thought about what she should have said to him in that clearing, a lifetime ago.

She should have reached out to him, placed her hand on his and told him that they had a chance to write a new story. She should have told him that she was afraid, but that he made her feel brave. She should have placed her arms around him and told him that she would never leave him. And later, when the time came, she should not have left him standing at the gate alone after he led her home.

Now it was her turn to lead him home, so she walked across the barren surface of the world and searched for him.

Deep in her pocket, protected from the world outside by a space suit, she carried the love letter he wrote. For a while she considered leaving the note behind for safekeeping. But, in the end all she could do was fold it and place it with care as close to her body as possible.

If she died out here, the last thing she wanted to read were his words, written on the surface of paper, written behind her eyes, written on the deepest parts of her that only he could reach.

* * *

Bellamy stared out at the wasteland before him and remembered the day his mother died.

Surrounded by the devastation of the end of the world, it seemed strange to him that he should be remembering a grief from the past. But, perhaps the feeling of grief springs from the same well, composed of past losses so that every future heartbreak evokes those that came before.

Orange sky, dust and dirt. The few trees that remained were grey and chalky, stripped of anything living. He suspected that if he pressed a finger to the bark the tree would disintegrate into the dirt.

The world had transformed into a barren place, without any animals moving on the ground and overhead. Through his mask he could hear a sound the earth itself exhaling. A death rattle.

It was as Clarke had feared. All of it was gone.

For hours he walked, his eyes playing tricks on him. A shadow turned into his sister right before his eyes. He thought he saw a mountain lion. Mirages and disappearing acts distracted him as he walked, but it was not until he reached the end of the length of rope and almost fell down against the pull that he realised the radiation was affecting him.

For a while he stared down at the taut rope. He was not someone who liked to break a promise. Reluctantly, he untethered himself and continued his lonely journey in the direction where he had last seen the rover.

Still, he walked.

Clarke had run back to him across this landscape, while he stood waiting by the rocket, praying for her to walk through the door. Afraid that perhaps this was the price he had to pay for all the pain he had caused.

What would have become of him, if he had climbed onto the rocket and taken off with his friends?

He would have thought she was dead; the silent radio would only have confirmed it. How could he have lived up there without her? What would he have done?

She would have wanted him to lead. So he would have led them the best way he knew how.

But, something essential would have been left behind on this planet, left with her. His heart, his spirit, the parts of him that were most human. He would have been a ghost. Or worse, he would have become hard. He would have wanted to be hard, to shut down and try to forget how it felt to love her. As if he could ever forget something that came as naturally to him as breathing.

There was another life he could be leading now. Up in the sky with his friends. Looking every night at the world transformed into her grave.

There were moments in his life when everything changed. The first night he held his sister as a newborn, trying to stop her from crying while his mother slept. The night he took Octavia to that stupid party. Shooting Jaha. Telling Charlotte to slay her demons. Pulling the lever. Working for Pyke. Decisions he made that changed his life forever. For better or worse. Mainly for worse.

He had made so many mistakes. But, there was one thing he knew with absolute certainty. Staying behind with her was the best decision he had ever made in his life. Whatever happened to them, whether or not they survived – loving Clarke Griffin was worth it.

He surveyed the landscape, so filled with love for her that it burned. And there, as if the landscape was offering him a hand from a life raft, he caught sight of a mound of sand obscuring metal. A glimmer of something in the pale light.

He surged forward. It was mostly buried in detritus, its doors obscured by sand and dirt. But it was there. The rover. And with it, the faintest possibility of survival.

Lifting some of the larger pieces of metal from it, he smoothed his hand over the windscreen, wiping away sand and dust. Then, he fell to his knees and began to dig.

For more than hour he had kneeled on the filthy ground digging out the wheels with his hands – slippery in the protective suit - surrounded by the vast empty landscape.

But still the rover sat in its cage of sand, a stubborn barrier between Bellamy and the single desire that burned within his chest: to save Clarke’s life. Behind him the force of the wind grew, blowing more and more dirt onto the rover. He dug like his life depended on it as the sky darkened and the wind howled.

* * *

It was unlike Jake Griffin to leave so suddenly during their traditional Sunday night viewing of college football.

For as long as she could remember, the four of them – Jaha, Jake, Wells and Clarke – would sit together and watch a recording of a game won or lost long ago. They would cheer and heckle as if the game was happening right in front of them. No one could remember how the Griffins and the Jahas had chosen the teams they supported. But they would die before defecting.

But then Abby arrived and mentioned the system analysis. At that moment, the mood of the room had shifted. Jaha leaned forward, his senses prickling at the thought of another crisis to manage.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Jake was already partly out the door when he responded. “You know this old boat – it’s always something.”

The festivities ended soon after, spoiled by the departure of the one person who could convince all of them that the result of a football game played more than one hundred years ago mattered at all in the depths of space. Jake lightened all of them. There was something disarming about him – something that drew people in. Jaha sometimes mused that it was Jake who should have become the politician.

“That’s a cruel thing to say about your oldest friend,” he would respond with a grin.

“Well,” Jaha shrugged in response. “I’m a cruel man.”

Clarke sat up late that night, long after her mother had gone to bed. She was drawing one of the ghosts from the football game – body in motion, fearless in the face of confrontation, surrounded by a crowd under the night air of earth.

She wondered whether the players knew then what was coming, whether they felt some instinct that death was stalking them from the shadows. Surely there must have been some hint that soon it would all be over, that in a handful of years those heroic clashes on the field would no longer matter. There would be no games, no television, no people to fill those stands. Did they know on some level that they were living the last days of their lives? Or did they think that all those small concerns of theirs really mattered?

It was thoughts like these that always prompted her father to tell her she thought too much.

Clarke traced the lines of the player’s helmet, his jaw, the shadows on his face. Grass was tricky for someone who had never set foot on it, but she felt she did a serviceable job of it. She paused, considering her next move. But, what did the night sky look like on earth with the stadium lights burning?

“That’s beautiful work, Clarke.”

She jumped in her seat, surprised to realise Jake had returned without her noticing. She looked down at her picture, glowing with pride at his compliment, but quick to notice the flaws herself.

“Movement is hard,” she said, turning around to peer up at him. His face was tired. “And the crowd behind is too indistinct.”

He knew better than to argue with her critique. “You’ll figure it out.”

She glanced down at the nest she had created for herself at his desk. “Do you need me to move?”

“No, I don’t want to disturb you,” he said quickly, a strange look on his face as he examined her. Something about his bearing was off. Despite his reassurances, she put aside her supplies and turned to face him. His face was tired, his eyes red.

“Mom is already in bed.”

“I know,” he said, staggering to the armchair near the viewing screen and rubbing his eyes with both his hands. “But I have to go back to work soon.”

Clarke bit her lip. “But it’s nearly midnight.”

“Just running a model that I want to check on,” he responded, offering her a faint smile.

“Dad, is everything - ”

“Everything’s fine, Clarke,” he said quickly. Then, he smiled again – more naturally this time – and gestured for her to take a seat across from him. “Who ended up winning the game?”

“We’ve watched it a dozen times.”

Jake chuckled. “You never know, maybe we missed something those other times.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “Like a different team winning?”

He laughed at that. He was the only person, other than Wells, who found her funny. Most people assumed she was like her mother: serious and earnest. He always teased them about the way their faces looked when they were concentrating – the thin line between their eyes that were mirrors of each other. Luckily he was there to bring them out of their heads. Despite his skill in engineering, he was far more inclined to focus on the present rather than musing about the future.

“So did Wells talk to you about the dance?”

Clarke felt herself blushing. “He mentioned it. But, I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“Why not?”

Clarke shrugged. “I don’t dance for one.”

“Just move your head to the beat and try not to step on anyone,” Jake shrugged. “Nothing to it. What’s your next excuse?”

“Wells doesn’t even like parties,” Clarke said, crossing her arms and picking at the side of the sofa. “I don’t know why he wants to go.”

“Don’t you?” Jake asked gently, before shaking his head at her clueless expression. “He wants to go to the party with _you_. He wants you to go somewhere together, it probably doesn’t matter to him where.”

She cocked her head to the side in genuine confusion. “We always do things together.”

Jake leaned his head on his hand, examining her. It always surprised her, the concentration that he gave her problems. He never dismissed her point of view, even when it was after midnight and he had to go back to work.

“He likes you, Clarke. He’s liked you for a while now. You must have noticed.”

Clarke cut her eyes away from her father, not wanting to acknowledge that she _had_ noticed. It was written on his face in quiet moments when they played chess. Sometimes she caught him staring at her from across the mess. He was always eager to do things for her, to step in and help her with any little task. Sometimes it seemed like he was gathering the courage to say something, and in those moments she would make an excuse and hurry down the hallway away from him.

She’d be lying if she said she hadn’t considered it. He was the one who knew her best and whose eye she caught when something ridiculous happened in Earth Skills. He was her best friend. It would be so easy to let him fall into the role he so obviously wanted to play in her life. He was the logical choice, but some silent part of her suspected that logic should not enter into it.

“Be kind to him,” her father said at last, breaking the silence and resting his elbows on his knees. “If you don’t feel the same way about him, then the only thing you owe him is your kindness.”

“It’s not that I don’t care about Wells,” Clarke said, biting her lip as if trying to keep the words to herself. “It’s just sometimes I think I’m not meant to be with anyone. It’s like, I’m missing something that everyone else has.”

Her mother would have said she was being silly. But her father turned over her words in his head, considering them from every angle. She knew, when he spoke, that it would be with absolute sincerity. He was incapable of lying.

“For what it’s worth, I think you’re wrong.”

“You have to think that. You’re my father.”

He chuckled again, before sobering. “You’re careful with your heart. It’s good to be careful. But you need to make sure that when the time comes and the right person arrives you’re not so closed off that you let them get away.”

Clarke bit her lip, gathering her courage to say the words that occurred to her whenever she tried to picture a future for herself. “What if there isn’t a right person for me?”

She wondered whether her father had ever looked this serious before.

“You’re an exceptional person, Clarke. That can feel lonely sometimes. But, too often we choose to be alone when we don’t have to be, when someone else can shoulder the burden with us.” He paused, sensing her skepticism. “Do you know what our greatest resource is on the Ark?”

Her father knew every inch of this ship, knew it intimately. She thought through the schematics he had shown her, searched out the answer to his question the way she did when her mother quizzed her in the infirmary.

She cocked her head to the side. “Oxygen?”

He chuckled kindly at that, before reaching out and placing his hand on hers where it rested on the sofa.

“ _People_ , Clarke. That’s what this place is built from. The ingenuity of the human race – people who dreamed themselves into the sky and reasoned their way to sustain itself among the stars. People will always surprise you. One day, when you least expect it, you’ll meet someone who changes everything for you. Someone who comes into your life like a solar flare and refuses to be ignored. Someone who shakes your foundations, someone who shapes you.”

“Is it always like that?” Clarke asked, almost shy. “You know right away that you’ve met the person you want to spend your life with?”

“If only it were that easy,” he said, shaking his head ruefully. “You know, when I met your mother I didn’t like her.”

“You’re kidding?” Clarke snorted, her mind filling with the image of her mother and father embracing, the hundred tiny ways they showed their devotion to each other. It was difficult to picture them young and disliking each other.

Jake smiled fondly at the memory. “She was bossy and opinionated – and she thought I was basically an idiot. We fought all the time – whenever we were near each other. But then I realised I was coming up with excuses to pick a fight with her, just to speak to her. So, one day I stopped fighting her and started talking to her. I just walked over and said, ‘Hello.’ And then we talked for hours.

“I was a goner from that day on. Nothing could have stopped me from falling in love with her. I haven’t stopped falling in love with her since that day.”

Clarke pulled a face. “I’ve noticed. You’re not exactly subtle about it.”

Jake just smiled. “Because I’m grateful everyday that I took that risk to know her. We owe each other that. Not just our consideration, but our reconsideration[1]. You have to be open to people, Clarke. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Clarke wondered suddenly what her mother felt that day the bright young engineer walked over to her and said, _Hello_. When she knew that she would marry him. When she knew that he was the one she wanted to be with. She and her mother rarely spoke this way; both were more comfortable talking about quantifiable facts. It was her father who was the dreamer, the idealist.

“I think I do.”

“Good,” he said, with conviction. He glanced at the clock, his shoulders drooping under the weight of his responsibility to all of them, to the ship that was built generations ago by the brightest minds in the world. But, even as the pressure wore him down, it never broke him. “I have to go back to work now.”

“Okay,” Clarke said softly. “I’ll see you later?”

“Of course,” he said with a faint smile, already pulling on his jacket. But, when he reached the threshold of the room he turned back to face her once more. He tapped his fingers lightly on the frame as if searching for words that usually came so easily. When he spoke his voice was unusually serious.

“I can’t tell you who to fall in love with, Clarke,” he said seriously, one foot out the door. “And I wouldn’t even if I could. Life never turns out quite how you plan it to. So I’ll just say this. Choose someone who makes you feel strong. Someone who challenges you to be the best you can be. Someone who loves you the way you are but inspires you to be better. The rest will figure itself out.”

He nodded to himself, before turning around and closing the door behind him, leaving her shaken and uncertain. Until the early hours of morning, Clarke would reflect on his words, spoken so earnestly, spoken so urgently. It was not until she made herself get up after a long, sleepless night that she realised why the conversation disquieted her.

It was advice about the future that a parent gave only if he didn’t expect to be there.

* * *

Her vision was narrowing, darkness encroaching at the periphery. She could feel the strength leaving her as the radiation encroached on her through the crack in her helmet. But, she couldn’t think about the haze of her brain, the aching and shaking limbs that told her time was nearly up.

All she could think about was him. The one that had entered her life like a solar flare. The one who had changed everything. So she placed one foot ahead of the other and walked through the wasteland. Following his footsteps, following the path he had taken.

When she reached the end of the rope she stared down at her feet and then out at the emptiness before her.

“End of the line,” she whispered through dry, parched lips.

She looked in each direction, trying to imagine which way he would have chosen. Where he would have gone. Which direction. Neither of them could survive out here for long. A wrong turn could spell the end. There was nothing for it but a leap of faith.

She closed her eyes, an image of him wavering before her. And then she took a step. Then another. She opened her eyes. Nothing for it but to keep going. Nothing for it but to believe that something in him was always calling for her.

As she walked, she remembered every time he had followed her into danger, into the unknown. He followed her lead and he stood by her side before the council, before the grounders, before a hostile army. Even when she pulled away from him, even when he watched her falling for Finn and Lexa. Even when she was afraid by the depth of her feeling for him, he was always there – steady as a heartbeat.

Whenever she wavered, he was steadfast. Whenever she lost herself he pulled her back. Whenever she faced danger, he stepped before her. Even when it was the end of the world.

He was right, she realised as she searched for him. She always did what she felt was necessary. When it mattered, _she_ decided. But, it wasn’t just her life on the line. Not any more. Hadn’t she told him that? They weren’t alone anymore.

The wind picked up speed, and she laboured against it, each step a battle. Clarke squinted into the distance she saw the sky turn yellow and purple like an old bruise. 

Before her eyes, the clouds darkened and churned. The sudden violence of it shocked her as it advanced towards her. She could see the force of it pulling in anything loose on the ground.

And then, she saw Bellamy. On his knees digging through the rubble. Oblivious to the storm gaining speed behind him.

“Bellamy!” she shouted, but her voice was carried away by the wind.

She pressed forward, shouting her voice hoarse. But it was not until she was within grasping distance of him that he looked up in shock. 

The wave of relief she felt at the sight his face almost made her knees buckle. She stumbled over her feet, before kneeling before him. For a moment, she pressed her hands against his chest, letting the warmth of his body bleed into hers, even through the layers of plastic that separated them.

Alive and whole – and more precious to her than anything else on this earth. But there was no time to waste.

“Clarke,” he said, bewildered as if he suspected she might be a figment of his imagination. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“There’s no time for that,” she said, tugging at his arm and gesturing over her shoulder at the storm. “We have to get out of here.”

He glanced back, face paling at the sight of the storm, raging and electric behind him. 

As they watched in horror, the storm that had been at a distance only minutes ago threatened to land right on them. It was as if the dust around them was being drawn into a sucking creature at the centre, hidden from view.

He turned back to face her, looking around desperately for shelter – attempting to shield her from the wind. A large sheet of metal, captured by the wind, nearly struck her, but Bellamy pressed her against the side of the rover, leaning on the sand that still blocked access through the doors.

Their helmets knocked together as he reached over her and desperately pressed his hands against the surface of the window. She tore her gaze away from the obliterating storm and realised suddenly that he was trying to pull it open.

Turning in the space between his arms, she pressed her hands between his. Working together, they forced down the window until it was open just enough. The rover immediately began filling with sand.

“Get inside,” Bellamy shouted over the roar of the wind. Before she could respond, he wrapped his arms around her middle and lifted her towards the window. It was a tight squeeze, but she clambered through it, her helmet an unwieldy presence, knocking against the dashboard.

Sprawled across the front seats, she scrambled for purchase. She could see Bellamy’s face, watching her through the window. Behind him, the sky tore itself apart and the ground shook with the force of it.

“You have to wind it up,” he shouted, gesturing at the window.

“Get in,” she shouted, ignoring his instructions.

He shook his head, eyeing the gap. “It’s too small.”

“No it’s not,” she said, aware suddenly of the tears blurring her eyes.

His voice cracked. “Close it, Clarke. Please.”

“Not without you.”

For a moment he looked at her, as if memorising her face. Peace came over his features behind his mask, even as fear filled hers. He stepped away from the car. Ready as always to die for her.

A strange determination settled over her. This was not how their story was going to end. She would not allow him to disappear on her.

“No,” she said firmly, righting herself in her seat. “This is not happening Bellamy. You are not dying today.”

With that, she ran her hands over the glove box, ripping it open and pulling the keys from their usual hiding place. Her hands shaking with adrenaline, she struggled to jam the key into the ignition. But when she turned the key, nothing happened.

“Come on,” she shouted, turning it again. A small whirring noise came from the engine, scarcely audible over the wind.

“Clarke,” Bellamy shouted, his hands on the door. “I’ll be fine. I can ride it out. Just close the window.”

She didn’t look up from the steering wheel, her hand slapping the leather surface. “Come _on_.”

To her shock, the engine sputtered into life. Bellamy stepped back, blinking in surprise at the sight of the buried car vibrating with life.

Grinning in victory, she threw the gears into reverse and slammed on the pedal. The rover groaned, wheels spinning over the uneven ground. But soon, it moved just enough to shake free of the worst of the sand. Clarke reached over, ripping open the door and gesturing frantically for him to climb inside.

For a moment, Bellamy stood staring at the open door in disbelief. Then, despite the chaos around him, he grinned.

“That was possibly the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my whole life.”

“Get in the car, Bellamy,” she shouted over the gale. “Or I swear to god I’ll kill you myself.”

Shaking his head as if to clear it, he jumped into the rover and slammed the door closed behind him. A sudden impact made both of them jump. A metal spike stood impaled in the ground in the spot where only seconds before Bellamy had stood.

Clarke slammed her foot on the accelerator and they reversed away from the storm, Bellamy hunched forward in his seat peering through the haze and dust. Clarke turned the car around, the tires protesting with each change in direction.

“That way,” Bellamy said, pointing into the haze.

She nodded, pressing the pedal as hard as she could, driving blind through the dust stirred up by the storm. Once or twice, she thought Bellamy might speak, but he seemed to think better of it. 

They drove in silence, hearts hammering with the fear of coming too close to losing each other once more.

Then, Bellamy reached out and took her hand where it rested on the gear stick. She laced her fingers through his, squeezing lightly as if reminding herself that he was real and beside her.

Somehow, they outpaced the storm and soon enough the laboratory reared over their heads – a welcome sanctuary. Clarke slowed to a stop, turning the key and slumping back in her seat. Peering up at the roof of the car, she sighed.

“It has to stop, Bellamy.”

“What does?” he asked gently, not releasing her hand.

“Going out alone. Being a hero. It has to stop.”

“Can you honestly tell me you weren’t going to do the exact same thing?” he asked, tracing his fingers over her knuckles. There was no hint of anger in his voice, just an exhausted resignation.

She turned her head to face him, offering him a faint smile. “Of course I was.”

He chuckled and tugged her into his arms. Even with the ridiculous helmets on, she could feel the warmth of his body bleeding into hers. As if they were one body at the end of the world.

“So what do we do?” he murmured, his hand resting at the point where the crook of her neck was buried under layers of plastic.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “But whatever it is, we do it together. We live our lives together, and if we have to die then we do that together, too.”

When he spoke, his voice was thick with emotion. “Sounds good to me.”

“Bell?” she said softly, not lifting her head from his shoulder.

“Yes, Princess?” he murmured, his voice rumbling through his chest.

She pulled back, something like surprise crossing her face. “I think I’m going to pass out.”

With that, the shadows overcame her and everything went black. The last thing she was aware of was Bellamy calling her name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're still enjoying the journey. Thank you for your kind reviews and support for this little story. It means the world to me. 
> 
> Footnoes:  
> [1] Amor Towles, A Gentleman in Moscow


	9. I'd Choose You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t believe you’re alive, you complete and utter moron,” Raven breathed, pulling back to examine his face. His hair was longer, and there fine lines gathered at the corner of his eyes. But, somehow he looked younger than he had when they first met. Bellamy’s eyes darted over her face, and Raven wondered what he made of her. “How is it possible?”
> 
> “Clarke,” he said, and at her name something in his eyes filled with emotion. 
> 
> “Clarke survived?” she breathed, tears filing her vision, her voice thick with them. 
> 
> He rested a strong hand on her shoulder and when he spoke it was low enough that only she could hear him. “It would take more than the end of the world to kill Clarke Griffin.”
> 
> She laughed through her tears. “I should have known. You’re both too stubborn to die.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First I have to apologise for the long break between updates. After the disappointing end to the series, I needed a break from this story. But, I am happy to report I have finally completed the final instalment. 
> 
> It ended up being an absolute beast of a chapter, but I decided to post it in full rather than hold out on you.

> “And I’d choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I’d find you and I’d choose you.”
> 
> \- Kiersten White, _The Chaos of Stars_

**Five years later**

The night before they left the sky for the last time, the seven of them gathered in the mess. Even Murphy, who had recently taken set up camp in the north corridors. They gathered together, friends and enemies united over the years into a sort of family. _Spacekru_ about to return to earth once more.

Raven made the announcement over the loudspeakers system. Sitting at the microphone, she wondered for a moment what Clarke might have said at this moment. Most likely, she would have been obsessively checking the final details. Over the years, the thought no longer pained her. Raven no longer reproached herself for failing to live up to the standard set by Clarke and Bellamy as co-leaders. Their styles may differ but their intent was the same: surviving – and hopefully one day, living.

Sometimes she even let herself believe they might have been proud of her. She could see them so clearly. A reassuring smile from Clarke, a nod of approval. Bellamy slightly behind her, hand resting on his gun, but a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She had known them for less than a year, but the force of them, the shadow of them reached through time, through space. An example to follow. A story cut short. But, no longer a judgment on herself.

So Raven reached for the microphone and spoke from the heart: “Tomorrow’s the day, losers – and we can’t pack the moonshine so lets finish it tonight.”

“Eloquent,” Echo commented, pulling alongside Raven as she hobbled to the mess, taking her usual place at her right hand.

Raven offered her an impish smile. “What can I say? I’m a poet.”

Echo chuckled as they took their usual seats at the long table where they ate their meals, played cards, drank moonshine, and hated and cared for each other over five long years. The two women sat at the table and waited for their family.

“Is it true?” Monty asked, appearing at the door with a hopeful and fearful expression. In his hands he clutched the worn old bottle filled with moonshine.

“That depends,” Raven responded, gesturing with her empty glass. Monty dutifully poured her a glass of his latest reserve. Not for the first time, Raven wished they hadn’t caved and consumed ‘The Baton’ when she broke the news that they would be stuck in space for another year.

“So we’re going home,” he said softly, as if he was afraid of speaking too loud, lest the universe snatch away the chance. Time had made him more reflexive and even quieter, if possible. It had been a long time since Raven could remember hearing him laugh.

Raven reached across the table and patted his hand gently. “We’re going home.”

When Murphy arrived, he loitered on the threshold for a moment. Raven could not blame him for his reluctance. The stinging words of his last fight with Emori were still echoing off the metal walls.

Emori would tell Raven about it later, during their last session pouring over faulty hardware before the flight home. Emori was surprisingly handy for someone more comfortable with horseback than modern technology. For now, she glared at Murphy – her face twisted with the sort of anger that can only be born from love.

But, Raven knew tonight was not a night for animosity. Tonight was about family. And survival. Maybe even the possibility of life just around the corner.

“Murphy,” she said, tapping the seat next to her. “Get your ass over here and raise a glass to never seeing this piece of crap ship again.”

“So it’s true,” he said flatly as he pulled up a seat. “You finally figured it out.”

“No thanks to you,” Emori snapped, before raising a hand in surrender at the reproachful look Echo shot her way.

“It’s true,” Echo said firmly. “Raven has solved the final puzzle. As we all knew she would.”

Raven looked up in surprise at the compliment. It burned in her chest far warmer than the alcohol. Echo held her gaze; she never looked away from anything, never shied away from a challenge. Even on the worst night, when Raven stood hunched over her formulas, mumbling to herself and cursing herself for failing to solve the final puzzle, Echo had simply pressed her hands to the surface of the table and asked her what she could do to help.

“Great,” Murphy responded, downing his drink in one gulp. “So now we get to find out whether we’re going to burn up in the atmosphere or starve to death in the desert.”

With that, he slammed his glass on the table and disappeared through the blast door back to his dark thoughts in the dark corner of the ship.

“What a buzzkill,” Raven commented, before refilling her glass.

“He is afraid,” Echo reasoned. “His words are coloured by his fears.”

Of course, his fears were not misplaced. Each person at the table was afraid of exactly the same thing. But they were each determined to hide their fear beneath brave words and deep glasses. Their toasts became increasingly ridiculous – “ _Here’s to deer with one head and two_ ”, “ _To no longer pretending to enjoy Monty’s algae”, “To finally getting more than five hundred paces away from each other_.”

They had all seen the patch of green down there – an oasis in the desert. During long lonely nights filled with nightmares, they each took turns looking at it. Allowed themselves to dream that perhaps they would find safe harbour there. Provided Raven could actually bring down the ship anywhere near it.

At last, slumped on hands or – in Monty and Harper’s case – draped all over each other, the mood turned quiet. Raven looked around at their familiar faces, the hopes and dreams and fears she had shared with them over all these days and nights in space. And she remembered those who were left behind.

“To fallen friends,” Raven said, her head resting on her forearms.

“To honouring the dead,” Echo said seriously.

Raven moved her head to peer at Echo and their gazes locked. This had been happening a lot recently. A strange tug that seemed to draw her gaze directly to Echo whenever she entered a room.

“It feels wrong that we never had a funeral for them,” Raven said softly, an aside intended just for her.

“Funerals are for after the battle is won. _Oso gonplei nou ste odon_. On the ground we will honour the dead.”

“In that patch of green,” Raven said dreamily. “Assuming I can get us there.”

“You will. You have never once failed us.”

Raven had never anticipated, that first time they spoke by the window overlooking the burning planet, how important Echo would become to her. Her calm certainty in the face of any challenge. Her unwavering belief that Raven could get it done. That she _would_ get it done. When Raven had confessed to her that she needed another year to figure out the fuel problem, Echo had simply nodded.

They fell asleep together in the mess, as if afraid of moving too far away before their departure. Even Murphy, separated from the others just outside the doorway. A few feet and a lifetime of regrets between them. Any thought of honouring the dead was replaced by a more pressing need to keep the living alive.

As Raven sat in the captain’s chair, she checked the coordinates for the tenth time. Such a small patch of green and blue – landing this thing would be like threading a needle. There was no margin for error. Anything else would kill them all. And Raven would be damned before she would prove John Murphy right.

“Here we go,” she said – and these were the only words spoken for the entire journey to earth.

They fell from the sky in a blaze of fire, just like they had the first time. A tooth-rattling impact; a noise like the end of the world (again). Then, silence.

“Well,” Raven said, breaking the silence. “You can’t say we don’t know how to make an entrance.”

For an incredulous moment, they sat grinning at each other. Alive. And then, like Octavia Blake before her, Raven leapt to her feet as fast as her brace would allow. She hobbled to the door and turned back to face them.

“I feel like I should say something.”

“Please don’t,” Murphy groaned.

“What about: ‘We’re back – again – bitches?’” Monty suggested, the sentiment sounding strange in his softly spoken tones.

“I don’t know,” Harper mused. “Maybe we need a different vibe this time.”

“Something less likely to result in the destruction of the planet?” Raven asked, familiar with the story of that first landing.

“We are now in the spacecraft by choice,” Echo drawled, inexpertly unstrapping herself from her seat.

“Fine,” Raven said, before turning back to face the door. “Here we go again.”

She opened the door.

Monty and Harper told the story enough for her to feel like she was there the first time they landed, though of course she arrived later, long after the dynamic of the camp had been set. How different it was to arrive back in a place familiar and alien at once, surrounded by the people she now knew best in the solar system.

This time their arrival was quieter, without the whooping and shouting. Witnessing the raging inferno from space, it seemed like a miracle to find this small patch of life. They stood in a line, breathing fresh air for the first time in six years. Monty and Harper stood with their hands clutched together as if afraid they might lose each other in all this wide, open space.

Raven looked up at the mountain ranges that had protected the valley from the worst of praimfaya. The sun dappled through green leaves, more green and alive than anything in space. As her eyes blurred with tears, she saw Echo standing with her head turned up into the sun. She stood perfectly still, as if allowing her senses to attune once more to the messages hidden in the elements.

Home. They were home.

But, there was something Raven needed to do before she could set about the serious business of starting again.

For a moment, Raven wondered whether she should at least tell Echo where she was going – so used to operating by her side. But, she thought better of it. Whatever it was between them that had grown over the years in space, it did not need constant tending. It was stronger than that.

So, Raven left the rest of them relishing their first moments back on the ground and walked into the unlikely forest on the irradiated planet.

She walked deeper into the undergrowth, her leg aching slightly as it adjusted to Earth gravity once more. It occurred to her that she would never again experience Zero G. The thought prickled for a moment in her throat, before she let it go. Long years in space had taught her to do that. Catch and release. It was one of the reasons she needed to say goodbye once and for all.

She found a spot down by the river, shaded by quiet trees, protected by rocks covered with moss. Purple flowers tumbled out of the spaces between the trees. Beauty between the lines. Softness among unrelenting strength.

It looked like a place where lovers would steal away to when they needed some privacy. She could almost picture them, the way they might have been if things had turned out differently. Clarke and Bellamy, stealing moments away from the others under the veneer of flimsy excuses. The image of what might have been no longer stung, but it still ached.

“This’ll do,” she murmured, before lowering herself to her knees with some effort.

For a moment, she looked at the eddying water. The tug of tides that pulled in unexpected directions. The ground was filled with invisible forces. They were never in charge down here. Raven pressed her fingers deep into the soft earth and began to dig.

On the grass next to her were two ID badges, printed from the Ark server: Clarke Griffin. Bellamy Blake.

It was a paltry send off. Raven wished there was something more personal she could have brought – a book that belonged to Bellamy or a painting by Clarke. But, there was no trace of them left on the Ring. Nothing substantial enough to represent her friends who had made the ultimate sacrifice for them. It was as if they never existed in the first place.

She placed the badges in the hole, side-by-side. Clarke and Bellamy gazed up at her. Still young. Unaware of the tides already pulling them towards each other. Alone for now, and unaware that they were hurtling towards each other and would never be the same as a result of their friendship. Whatever else they were to each other, it was a friendship down to the bones. It was the true meaning of the Grounder word: _kru._ Kinship that was deeper than blood. Bonds that could never be broken. This finally was how she could make sense of that last sacrifice by Bellamy. There was no other option.

Swallowing hard, Raven found herself saying the familiar words:

 _“In peace may you leave the shore_ ,” she whispered, her throat tight. “ _In love_ … _in love may you find the next. Safe passage on your travels until our final journey to the ground._ ”

The tears took her by surprise. For the first few years in space, a mere mention of Bellamy or Clarke was enough to sour the mood of the room and an exponential increase in moonshine consumption. But somewhere over the years, the memory of their fallen friends became less painful. It felt good to remember. It felt like keeping their memory alive. But back here the memories were too much.

A hand pressed her shoulder.

“ _Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim_ ,” Echo said, strong and sure in this as she was in all other things. “May we meet again _._ ”

Raven squeezed her hand. It was new and fragile, whatever this was between them. Soon enough, the time would come to see what exactly it was. She would make sure of it. This was a lesson she had learned from them as well. In the end there is never enough time to spend with the ones we love.

Echo knelt down next to her in one swift movement. Sensing that Raven could not bear to be the one to start covering their faces, she began methodically filling the hole with dirt.

“Now they rest together,” Echo said when she finished.

“About time,” Raven responded, glad to hear that her voice had stopped wavering.

“Do you need a moment or are you ready to go back now?”

“Let’s stay here for a minute.”

Echo nodded, settling more comfortably on the ground. She looked around, taking in the sounds of birds, cataloguing the plants and considering the strategic advantages of the spot. Raven smiled at the sight of her back in her element.

Then, something shifted in Echo’s face. A shadow and a tensing of muscles. The return of the warrior bearing she had left behind in Polis all those years ago. She sat stock still, as if listening with her entire body. After a moment, Raven heard it too. A faint rustling in the bushes across the other side of the river.

As they watched, utterly helpless without weapons, the bushes parted and a pale face stared out at them from the other side of the river.

A girl. With long brown hair, holding a spear in her hand and blinking at them in surprise. A stranger – for the first time in six years.

“Holy shit,” Raven said.

* * *

**Five years earlier**

Back again to the beginning: darkness and confusion. But this time, Clarke was aware of a hand holding hers, a tether that would bring her back to herself. Then, the voice she would know anywhere and in any time. That voice that she would follow anywhere.

“It’s time to wake up, Princess,” he said.

So, she woke up. Only this time she saw his face.

He peered down at her where she lay on the sofa, his eyes gentle and unguarded. His riotous curls plastered to his forehead. He had obviously not left her side since he carried her from the rover into the decontamination chamber. The emotions of the day were written on his face. She offered him a weak smile, before reaching up to press a hand to his cheek. He closed his eyes at the contact.

“How long was I out?” she rasped, prompting him to reach for a cup of water by his side. She drank gratefully.

“An eternity,” he said softly. “The radiation soaked through the crack in that damn helmet.”

She smiled, lifting up onto her elbows. “I think it was the stubborn woman inside the helmet who was more to blame.”

He shook his head fervently, sitting back on his haunches. “I should have known you’d follow me. I should have taken that one and left you the proper one.”

“I thought we agreed that what we should have done was go together,” she said firmly, lifting his face so his eyes met hers.

“What if something had happened to me out there and you were left here alone with a broken helmet?” There was a strange expression on his face that appeared whenever he began blaming himself for failing to look after the people around him. His eyes would shutter, his jaw clench, and he would hold himself tighter. As if he was concentrating on keeping the darkness from spilling out on him.

Clarke felt her throat tighten at the thought. “You think I’d care about what happened to me if you were hurt or dead?”

“I don’t want to keep making mistakes, Clarke,” he said. “I don’t want to keep letting you down.”

“You’ve never once let me down.”

He shook his head. “We both know that’s not true.”

“There’s no point worrying about the past. Let’s focus on the future.”

For a few minutes, he fought visibly for control over his emotions.

“We got the rover, Bell,” she said when it became clear he would not respond. “That means we can make it to the mansion.”

“And then what?”

“Then we live to fight another day. Together.”

He sighed, but she could tell that her words had eased the tension from his shoulders. Whatever progress they made in living for each other rather than dying for each other, the dark moods would still come, the ghosts would still clamour for attention. All that was left was to care for each other. To read poetry between the lines, as he said in his letter.

_The letter._

Her eyes widened and she patted down her jeans, searching for the letter she had carried into the desert. It was gone. Panic filled her chest at the thought of never again being able to read those words again: _I love you, Clarke. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you_.

“Bellamy,” she said urgently, sitting up and reaching out for his shoulders to steady herself. He wrapped his arms around her waist, kneeling between her legs. “I’ve lost it.”

“Clarke,” he said gently. “It’s okay - ”

“No it isn’t,” she said, her heart twisting. “I had it in my pocket and now I can’t find it.”

“I’m sorry,” he said softly, pulling out the letter from his own pocket – now torn and wet from the decontamination shower. Whole sentences had disappeared into running ink. “I was in a hurry to get you out of that suit and into the shower. I didn’t realise you had it with you. That you took it out there.”

“It was just in case,” she said, her voice wavering. She felt ridiculous, sitting on the sofa and trying to hide her tears. “I wanted to keep it with me in case I didn’t make it back here. And now it’s ruined.”

“Clarke,” he chided, reaching out to brush the tears from her cheeks. “I’ll write you a new one. I’ll write you a thousand love letters. But honestly, you won’t need them."

“Why not?” she asked thickly, burying her face in the crook of his neck, breathing his scent.

He clutched her tighter still. “Because I plan on showing you how much I love you every day. I’ll remind you that I can’t live without you for the rest of my life. I’ll even tattoo it on my face if makes you feel better.”

“Let’s keep your face how it is for now,” she chuckled, before pressing her forehead to his.

It was not clear who initiated the kiss, but she soon found herself lost in the sensations. Kissing him was always exhilarating, but now with his feeling on plain display the tenderness took her breath away. She clutched him close, trying to pull his full weight over her on the sofa – aware that he would be too concerned about her recent collapse to risk injuring her. But, she pressed herself against him, wrapping her legs around him where he knelt before her.

When he pulled back she let out a small whine. “I’ve loved you forever, Clarke,” he said softly. “You must have known that. Everyone knows it.”

“Sometimes I thought you might,” she said, biting her lip. “But I could never be sure you weren’t just being a hero.”

“Of course, you’re the only person on the planet who failed to notice,” he chuckled, shaking his head before sobering. “I meant to tell you a hundred times, but there was always something standing in the way. There was never time for us.”

“We have time now,” she breathed, and kissed him.

When they finally paused to draw breath, it was his turn to bury his his face in her hair. “I was going to tell you on the beach that day. After you told me Octavia would forgive me. I thought it was written all over my face.”

“I knew you were going to say something that would change everything,” Clarke breathed. “But I couldn’t let myself think about what that might be. That’s why I stopped you.”

He swallowed, as if the words he wanted to say were painful. “Because you didn’t feel the same?”

“No – because I did. I may not have known for sure you loved me, but I knew that if we ever had a minute to think about what we meant to each other, we wouldn’t be able to do what we had to do. To save everyone.”

“But you did feel something,” Bellamy said wonderingly. “You do?”

The thought that he had to ask her was like a physical blow – a reminder that deep down in the most secret parts of him, he would never believe that anyone could care for him. That he deserved to be loved.

“Come with me,” she said, tugging him to his feet and wordlessly leading him back downstairs.

She led him back down to the hooks where the suits were once more hanging in their proper places. She reached down to the bench where she had found his letter and picked up the picture she had abandoned in her pursuit of him across the wasteland.

Wordlessly, she handed him the picture she had drawn of them. He held it with both hands, staring down at it with unbroken concentration. He stared at it as if it were speaking directly to him. As the silence lengthened she grew almost bashful. She crossed her arms.

“I was a quiet kid,” she said. “My parents weren’t like that. They were always confident and every room they walked into people listened to them. My mother could reason with anyone – probably because everyone knew she would end up doing what she thought was right no matter what they thought. And when my dad spoke - ” her throat tightened at the memory and Bellamy looked up at her, still holding her picture in both hands. “Well, it was like when you speak. People were inspired. But, whenever something mattered to me, I got tongue-tied. ”

“I find that hard to imagine,” he said softly.

She smiled, before glancing down at the paper once more. “So one day my dad brought over his tracing paper from Engineering, and he sat down and he showed me how to draw. Every night he taught me something new. When he ran out of things to teach me, he brought me books about art from the library. He told me that whenever my words left me, I should draw what I wanted to say.”

Bellamy’s jaw worked with emotion. “He sounds like a great man.”

“He was,” she said, the familiar ache in growing in her chest at the mention of her father. “Over time, I got better at making myself heard. But, I never lost the habit of drawing what was important to me. I must have drawn you a hundred times, Bellamy.

“I’ve never seen a picture of me before,” he said.

“I was afraid you’d be able to tell. I was afraid that if you looked at them, you’d know.”

When he looked up, his face was more vulnerable than she had ever seen it before. She realised suddenly how much of himself he held back, ready to be disappointed, ready to be knocked down once more. This was the ongoing legacy of his childhood: he never expected anything good to last.

“Know what?”

She smiled at him once more, even as her eyes filled with unshed tears. “That the way I felt about you was too big for one picture.”

It took him more than one try to locate his voice. “It’s beautiful, Clarke.”

“It’s easy to draw a beautiful picture of you,” she laughed through her tears. She traced her hands up his arms, all the way to his face. “And falling in love with you is the easiest thing I’ve ever done."

“Clarke,” he said urgently. “You don’t have to say it back. If you’re not ready, you should know that I don’t need you to say it. It won’t change how I feel about you.”

“I don’t need more time. I don’t need to think about it. I’m sure. I’m in love with you, Bell. You’re the love of my life.” She gestured at the picture in his hand. “This picture is just one moment in the lifetime I want to spend with you.”

One moment they were standing apart and the next his arms were around her, holding her tight. The rustle of paper told her he was looking at the picture, even as he held her in his arms. “This is where we’ll live?”

“It doesn’t matter where we are. You’re home to me. As long as we’re together, it’s home.”

He pulled back for a moment to look at her face, giving her another one of those breathless looks of his. Then, to her surprise, he loosened his grip on her and turned around to place the picture carefully on the bench behind him. For a moment, he stared down at the picture reverently. Then, he turned back to her, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I never know what to say,” she murmured, wrapping her arms around his middle. “That’s why I draw.”

Nothing could have kept him away from her. He pressed his long body against hers.

“I’m going to build us a house,” Bellamy breathed, his nose buried in her hair.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nodded fervently. “Somewhere safe. Where you’ll paint beautiful pictures, and I’ll tell boring stories about the Greeks.”

“As long as you do the cooking,” she murmured, the stress and emotional exhaustion of the day overcoming her as she ran her hands up the broad planes of his back.

“Obviously,” he responded, pressing his lips to her neck. “I’m not building a house just so you can poison us.”

Truly it should have been impossible to be this happy at the end of the world. The lines, the uncertainty seemed to have melted from his shoulders. She offered him a grin that she knew must look ridiculously dreamy.

“You never know. Maybe my cooking will improve over time.”

“Calling what you do ‘cooking’ is generous, Princess,” he laughed.

“There’s a certain art to the way I burn things. I think there’s potential there.”

He laughed and she felt it rumbling through her body, as if they were the same person. For the first time on this dangerous, unpredictable planet, she felt perfectly at peace. The fear was still there, clamouring for attention. The uncertainty of the future. But her heart was full and her nerves were alive at every point where his skin touched hers. She suspected she would never tire of kissing him.

“You should know,” he murmured between desperate kisses. “When Octavia gets out of that bunker she’s never going to let me live it down. It took the end of the world for me to finally tell you how I feel about you.”

“That’s five years away,” she said, arching her neck as he became suddenly fascinated with tracing kisses down her collarbone. “Are you sure you won’t tire of me by then?”

If possible, he held her even closer. It occurred to her he was wearing far too many clothes. Something had to be done about that, she decided. As she set about work, his hands ran up and down the bare skin of her back, sending a shiver through her body.

“Now I have you,” he breathed as he helped her remove his top. “There’s no chance in hell I’m letting you slip away.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” she responded, before she forgot how to say anything but his name over and over.

* * *

“Tell me again why we’re doing this?” Raven asked, stumbling through the undergrowth after the half-wild girl with the long brown hair tied back in surprisingly intricate plaits.

The girl scarcely needed to watch where she was going as she sprang from one rock to another, the river gurgling to her right. She had yet to say a word to them – did not seem particularly surprised to see them – but had simply gestured for them to follow them after Echo attempted to ask her who her parents were and where she lived. An hour later, Raven wondered what had possessed them.

“The child is cared for,” Echo said again, never taking her eyes off the figure that led them through the trees. “If there are people here, I want to know about it.”

“How could anyone survive Praimfaya?” Raven whispered, taking Echo’s hand gratefully as she manoeuvred herself over the uneven terrain. Years in space had caused the muscles in her injured leg to atrophy further. It would take time to build up the unused muscles again.

“How did this valley survive? Perhaps they were protected.”

“Or maybe the radiation made them crazy and she’s leading us back to her parents who will murder us and eat us.”

“There was a rumour of a _kru_ in the south who would feed traitors to the reptiles that lived in the swamp. Weeks later they would kill the beast the village would feast on its flesh.”

“My appreciation for Grounder culture continues to grow,” Raven commented. It could have been her imagination, but she could have sworn that she saw the girl’s face twitch at that. “Hey kid, if you’re going to feed us to your family can you at least promise to kill us first?”

The girl simply gave them a look before continuing her rapid progress through the woods. With just a hint of resentment, Raven watched Echo move as if she had never set foot outside this green oasis. Every now and again, she would step off the path to gather herbs or flowers. 

“Do you need any assistance?” Echo called out in Trig and English, each time they stopped to allow the girl to gather her herbs.

The girl shot her a withering gaze and Raven was reminded suddenly, painfully, of Octavia.

Perhaps this girl knew of what became of those in the bunker. Perhaps that was who the girl was leading them towards. Perhaps she would see her friend, see Abby at the end of this strange and silent journey through the woods.

For years, she longed to set up a communication link with the bunker, but with their few resources, it would not do to waste time focusing on anything other than survival.

Despite her longing to see her old friend, she wondered sometimes how she would tell Octavia that her beloved older brother had perished with the death wave. How she would tell Octavia that she had been unable to convince him to leave Clarke and the dying world behind. Raven doubted she would be surprised.

There was an afternoon once, during those days when Clarke was gone and Bellamy was a phantom, that Raven had chanced upon brother and sister by the horses. Bellamy had volunteered for a hunting party that they all knew would become another fruitless search, another day spent searching the horizon for blonde hair and stubborn blue eyes that had disappeared completely from his life after the horror of the mountain.

“You need to rest,” Octavia said, her low voice not brooking any argument.

Bellamy scoffed, strapping his satchel to the horse. “You’re one to talk.”

Octavia placed her hand on her belt, where her weapon would be if she were not standing in Arkadia. “I’m worried about you, big brother.”

“I know my limits,” he said in a cold voice that would have terrified most of the camp. But Octavia just grabbed his bicep. Hard.

“You don’t have limits. Not when it comes to Clarke. You never have.”

Bellamy lowered his head, his jaw working in his cheek. “This is not about Clarke.”

“Everything is about Clarke for you. And one day you’re going to kill yourself trying to save her.”

“I’m not as reckless as you and Clarke like to think,” he grumbled, his arms crossed over his chest.

“You are when it comes to the people you love,” she said firmly, something of the gentle young girl she was, before the surface of the earth hardened her into metal, appeared in her face. “You deserve better, Bell.”

Sometimes the thought had occurred even to Raven. That he would be better off if Bellamy had never known Clarke. During those long months, when he spent hours volunteering to guard the wall or lead hunting parties. During long days in the camp when he prowled around like a caged animal.

But then, Raven would remember the way they were together. The way Clarke looked at him sometimes, like he was a hero stepped out of the pages of a book. The way he stood taller when she was by his side. They moved through the forest as one. They stood between each other and any danger. The way Raven thought he would never let go of her when they embraced after her escape from the mountain.

“You don’t trust her,” he said, and even hidden behind a tree, Raven could hear the hurt in his voice. “You haven’t trusted her – not since Ton DC.”

“Clarke is complicated,” Octavia said.

“That’s an understatement,” he snorted.

“I trust her to do whatever it takes to protect her people. But you’ll do anything to protect her. And I don’t trust her with you. Not after the mountain.”

Bellamy’s eyes softened, and he offered his sister a smile. “It’s just a hunting party. It has nothing to do with Clarke. You’re being melodramatic, O.”

Frustrated, Octavia stepped away from her brother as he readied the horse. “Try not to get yourself killed, Bell.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, before leaping up onto the horse as if he had been born to ride it.

Of course, now it was no more than dreams and moonbeams. Memories and regrets that always seemed to find them here on the ground.

“You look melancholy, Raven,” Echo said gently. “Their souls are at rest now.”

“Their souls, maybe,” Raven said through the lump in her throat. “But I’m the one who has to tell Abby – to tell Octavia.”

At that, the girl stopped and turned on her heels to face them. “Octavia Blake?” she said, as if these were not the very first words she had uttered in hours - not to mention the first sign she had given that she understood a word they said.

“You know Octavia?” Raven said, stepping towards the girl eagerly.

The girl scoffed, crossing her arms in a fairly convincing impression of Octavia herself. Raven had scarcely allowed herself to believe it, but perhaps the girl was from the bunker.

“Of course I know Octavia,” she scoffed. “The warrior from the sky who lived under the floor boards.”

Raven grinned. “More like the pain in the ass from under flood boards, but yeah that’s the one.”

Echo stepped forward, frowning. “You are _Wonkru_? Is this valley W _onkru_ land?”

Raven glanced at her, frowning at the tone of her voice. “None of that matters anymore.”

“ _Kru_ always matters and I am still an exile.”

“No, you’re not,” Raven said, grabbing her hand. “You’re part of my family. I’ll talk to Octavia. I’ll talk to whoever I have to.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Raven,” she said, pulling her hand away and drawing herself up to her full height. “ _Kru_ above all others. That is how we live. That is how we have always lived.”

“You’re _kru_ to me,” Raven said, her voice breaking as she reached out to grasp Echo’s shoulder. “I will fix it.”

For a moment, Echo peered into her eyes, as if surprised by the fondness she found there. Then, her proud face broke out into a gentle, private smile. “How you love to fix things, Raven,” she said, gently, before turning once more to face their strange, young guide. “Very well, take us to _Wonkru_ – to Octavia.”

“Octavia is not here,” the girl said, her head cocked to the side. “We’ve been waiting for you to get back, Raven. To help us open the bunker.”

Raven felt her blood run cold and then hot as something awfully close to hope filled her veins. “What are you talking about, forest girl?”

But before the girl could answer, a voice called out from the forest.

“Madi - what the hell are you doing out here alone?”

It was a voice neither of them had ever imagined they would hear again. Shocked, Echo and Raven could only stare at each other as the man emerged from the forest, a spear in his hand and his face stern. The man placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, as if reassuring himself that she was standing before him. “What have I told you about leaving home without telling us?”

She crossed her arms, staring up at him defiantly. “I’ve been fishing by myself since I was five, Bellamy. I heard a crash so I went to see what it was.”

“It’s not about the fishing, Madi. It’s about you leaving without telling us where you’re going. What if something happened to you and I didn’t know where you were?”

At that, the girl scoffed. “You’d find me. You always find me.”

Fondness softened the hard edges of the man’s face. “You don’t make it easy for me.”

“It wouldn’t be any fun if it were easy,” she said, offering him a toothy grin that prompted him to chuckle.

Raven opened and closed her mouth. It was impossible, it was completely and utterly impossible. But Bellamy Blake was standing in front of her lecturing the girl – Madi – the way he used to lecture the hundred when they disappointed him. Caving into her as if it were a perfectly ordinary occurrence.

“Holy shit,” Raven breathed, blinking at the scene that played out before her.

Surprised, Bellamy and Madi turned in unison. Seeing them next to each other, Raven wondered how she could have failed to notice the fact that her half-smile, her mannerisms were textbook Bellamy Blake.

“Surprise,” Madi said drily, offering Bellamy one of his own wry smiles. All Bellamy could do was stare incredulously across the clearing at his old friend.

“Holy _fucking_ shit,” Raven breathed again.

Bellamy shook his head as if to clear it, before striding across the clearing to Raven. Before she had a chance to process his movement, she felt herself suddenly engulfed by his embrace. Shaking with shock, she threw her arms around him, squeezing tight.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear those words.”

“Bellamy says I’m not allowed to use words like that,” Madi chimed in, prompting both Bellamy and Raven to laugh.

“I can’t believe you’re alive, you complete and utter moron,” she breathed, pulling back to examine his face. His hair was longer, and there fine lines gathered at the corner of his eyes. But, somehow he looked younger than he had when they first met. Bellamy’s eyes darted over her face, and Raven wondered what he made of her. “How is it possible?”

“Clarke,” he said, and at her name something in his eyes filled with emotion.

“Clarke survived?” she breathed, tears filling her vision, her voice thick with them.

He rested a strong hand on her shoulder and when he spoke it was low enough that only she could hear him. “It would take more than the end of the world to kill Clarke Griffin.”

She laughed through her tears. “I should have known. You’re both too stubborn to die.”

“I can’t believe you made it back,” he responded, before he frowned. “Did you all make it?”

“Every single one of us,” she said. “Even Murphy.”

Bellamy grinned. “So you didn’t float him after all.”

“I was tempted more than once.”

“In that you were not alone,” Echo chimed in, prompting Raven and Bellamy to pull apart. Echo noticed that Bellamy drew back to Madi’s side. “It is good to see you again, Bellamy _kom_ _Skaikru_.”

For a moment, Bellamy seemed to consider, before offering Echo a tight smile. “Welcome home, Echo.”

Noticing the momentary frisson of tension, Raven stepped forward to stand next to Echo. “We’re all _Skaikru_ now.”

Bellamy’s eyes fell to her hand on Echo’s shoulder. Then, he nodded. If there was one thing Bellamy understood, it was loyalty. Raven was filled with fondness for her old friend – his presence filled the clearing.

“Where are the others?” Bellamy asked.

“About an hour north,” Echo said. “They will be wondering where we are.”

Bellamy nodded, all business once more. He glanced up at the sun, before peering down at Madi and eyeing the herbs in her hand.

“You should go back to Clarke,” Madi said, confidently. “Give her the medicine.”

He frowned, looking torn. “Do you remember where you found Raven and Echo? Can you lead them back?”

“I know where to go, Bellamy,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You need to look after Clarke.”

“I don’t like it,” he said, wavering even as she handed him the herbs she had gathered so carefully from the forest.

“We’ll keep her safe, Bellamy,” Echo said seriously, her hand on her old blade tucked in her belt. “You have my word on that.”

Finally, the fight seemed to leave him. “Fine,” he said. “But straight to the ship and back. No fishing. And keep an eye on Murphy.”

Madi grinned. “But Murphy is my favourite.”

“Well,” Raven said with a shrug. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

Bellamy sighed, before drawing the girl in for a quick hug. Raven couldn’t help but grin at the way Madi squirmed out of his grasp – looking uncannily like child standing in front of her friends, embarrassed by an overbearing father. Finally she squirmed free of his grasp.

“Enough _nontu_ ,” she said dismissively. “I’ll be fine. Go to Clarke.”

For a moment, he stood stock still as if stunned. Then, shaking his head as if to clear it, he nodded and moved back towards the forest. He offered them one more incredulous grin before he disappeared into the trees, hurrying back to Clarke.

“Clarke will be happy you have returned,” Madi said, waving a hand in the direction where Bellamy disappeared into the tree line. “They talk about you all the time.”

“I can’t believe they’re alive,” Raven said, shaking her head. “I can’t believe any of you survived out here.”

“We survive _together_ ,” Madi said, and suddenly Raven heard the echo of Clarke in her words. The shock of it echoed once more through Raven’s body. Bellamy and Clarke were alive.

“Madi,” Raven said softly as they began the journey back the way they came. “What’s wrong with Clarke?”

For the first time, something like fear crossed Madi’s face. “We don’t know.”

* * *

The first time he saw Madi, Bellamy was unsuccessfully fishing with a spear.

It was one of those rare occurrences when Clarke took a moment away from fixing up the cabin, reviewing and updating their maps, and collecting her medicinal herbs. She was sprawled by the shore, leaning against a tree with her sketchbook on her knees while Bellamy stood shirtless with his trousers pulled up to his knees and a spear in his hands, knee deep in the water.

Whenever he lunged unsuccessfully for a fish she laughed. He peered over his shoulder at her in mock-annoyance. “I hope you’re not recording my humiliation for posterity, Princess,” he called.

“Actually, I’m drawing what I want to do to you once you dry off.”

“Why wait until I’m dry?” he grinned. “I can multitask.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to need your full attention for what I have planned,” she said with a wicked grin.

For a moment, he blinked at her. Then, he recovered his wits and dropped the spear to his side. “My god, Clarke. You really know how to distract a man. I think I’m going to have to take a look at this picture of yours.”

He strode out of the river and towards her. Throwing himself to the ground next to her, he tried to peer down at her notebook. She laughed, shielding the picture from his view and straddling his thighs.

“It’s not finished,” she said, scratching her fingernails down his bare back. “But I can give you a little preview if you play your cards right.”

He pulled her more tightly against him as she rotated her hips in maddening circles. Even as his body responded to her ministrations, he found himself suddenly staring. Here, in this clearing filled with purple flowers, with the sun peaking through gaps in the trees, she looked young and happy. He felt an odd pride fill him. He made her happy.

Even now, two months after finding this strange Eden, it never seemed real. For more than two years they had lived confined in fortresses – first the laboratory, then the mansion. Then there was nothing but a vast wasteland, searching fruitlessly for food and safe harbour. Nights filled with strange noises and unknown creatures.

He remembered the long walk through the desert, the thirst and hunger that threatened to overwhelm them. The feeling of Clarke’s hand in his as the strength left both of them – but her grip on him never wavered.

There was one dark night in the desert when there was not enough food for both of them that he found Clarke holding the gun they had taken with them from the mansion to her own temple. How she had cried in his arms when he wrestled the gun from her grip, how he had begged her to promise him that she would not stop fighting for her life. _Together_ , he wept into her neck as he clutched her to him, the gun still in his hand. _That’s our deal, Princess._ She kissed every sand-covered part of his face, apologising again and again.

The next day they saw the bird that led them to the valley. The shock of green after the bleached desert almost convinced him they were dreaming. But if it were a dream, it was one he was willing to die for. The first gulp of water at the stream that ran through the centre of the valley tasted like paradise. How tightly they clutched each other by that river. How without speaking they waded into the cool, untouched water, Clarke with her legs around his waist and her arms around his shoulders. They stayed by the river until sundown, watching the sky turn orange, red and finally purple.

“We made it,” she had whispered, her head resting over his heart as his finger traced the line of her vertebrae. “We actually made it.”

The memory of their first moments in the valley made him tighten his hold on her.

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, tugging his earlobe between her lips.

“I was thinking that you’re beautiful,” he breathed through his arousal. “And how I wish I could go back to our first day on the ground and give myself a slap on the back of the head.”

“Could you mess up your hair too?” she asked, running her hands through his curls. “I like it a little wild. I like you a little wild, too.”

“Do you now?” he murmured, his hand slipping down her back and lifting her shirt

But before she could find out what his clever hands intended, a noise from across the river startled them. As one, they turned their heads, Clarke sitting back on her haunches.

There, standing barefoot on a boulder was a girl with long, curly brown hair, her light eyes wide and shocked. In her hand she held a spear much like Bellamy’s, which he salvaged from the largest of the surprisingly in tact wooden cabins. She stood frozen in place, as shocked to see them as they were to see her. She was filthy, her clothes caked in mud and her hair a tangled mess on her head.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathed, climbing to her feet. “Am I hallucinating?”

“It’s a kid,” he breathed. “That’s a kid.”

The sound of their voices seemed to wake her from her reverie. Turning on her heels, she dashed from the clearing and disappeared into the undergrowth.

For a moment, they stood staring at the patch of forest which had swallowed her whole. For weeks when they stumbled onto this patch of green, they explored and mapped the entire area. They had not found another soul in that time. But somehow this girl had slipped by their defences. It was thrilling and terrifying in equal measure.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathed. “Do you think she’s alone out here?”

“She looked alone.”

“She could have been alone since it happened,” Clarke said, her hand pressed to her mouth in dawning horror at the thought.

He frowned, not certain how to answer. “We’ll search the woods. We’ll find her, Clarke.”

When he stepped away to pick up her notebook, she tugged his hand. Finding herself overcome with emotion, she closed her eyes. She felt Bellamy settle his hands on her face, pressing a lock of hair behind her ears. It was getting too long; he would need to cut it for her.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, forcing her mouth into a small smile. “It just brings back bad memories, you and me chasing a child through the woods.”

“It won’t be like it was with Charlotte this time,” he said, pressing her hand to his heart. “We’ll do better this time. We’ll do it together.”

She nodded and they made their way home in silence.

For weeks they searched for her and found no trace. At night, Clarke would put out food for her and would often find it gone in the morning. But, neither could be sure whether it was the nameless girl they had seen or whether it was taken by an opportunistic animal.

Then, one morning when he was once more in the river fishing, she appeared once more, perching on a rock and watching him as he attempted to spear another fish. Although he had set traps for rabbits around their cabin, he was mindful of the delicate habitat where they found themselves. While he caught only and occasional rabbit, there seemed to be an abundance of fish. They would make do until larger animals grew in numbers. It seemed the girl had come to a similar conclusion.

“ _Chit’s sketchi_ ,”[1] the girl said suddenly, startling him just as he was poised to spear a darting silver fish.

As an older brother, he didn’t need to recall much Trig to understand that she was critiquing his methods.

“What am I doing wrong, then?” he asked, gesturing with spear and shrugging his shoulders.

She clambered to her feet, before miming the same gesture he had been attempting. But, casting his hunter’s eye on her actions, he realised where he was going wrong. His movements also needed to be smoother so he did not give away his location to the slippery fish he hoped to cook for Clarke that evening. He also noticed that she seemed to be about six years old.

His big brother heart clenched at the thought of someone so young living alone for so long. But, he and Clarke had agreed – she needed to come to them. It had to be her choice, on her terms.

He imitated her movements above water until he received a disdainful shrug from the girl – one that clearly said: _that’s probably as good as you’re ever going to be._ It was similar to the look Octavia had given him the first time he plaited her hair.

After a few tries in water, he found to his delight that he successfully speared a fish. He held it up in triumph to the girl as she peered down at him skeptically.

“Someone taught you well,” he said, as she gave him a nonplussed look. He smiled at her before gesturing to his chest. “ _Ai laik Bellamy kom Skaikru.”_

“ _Skaikru?_ ” she asked dubiously. He smiled at her doubt and pointed skyward. Her eyes widened at the gesture, glancing up into the overcast sky.

He nodded, before reaching out and handing her the fish he caught. She looked at him uncertainly.

“You deserve it,” he said gently.

Hunger seemed to outweigh caution; she snatched it from his hands before running away into the forest.

They saw her only in passing, in glimpses for days after that. She spent an afternoon watching Clarke draw, blurting out that her name was Madi only when Clarke presented her with a detailed sketch of the girl’s own face. She continued to critique Bellamy in all his daily chores. She followed Clarke around as she planted seeds in a small garden outside their house, repeating the names for plants in English when Clarke murmured them to herself. They pretended not to notice her in the shadows, just outside of the light of the fire, when they ate their evening meal.

Things might have continued in much the same way if it hadn’t been for the storm. While their little Eden might have escaped the worst of the radiation, it was subject to sudden wild jags of inclement weather. That day, the winds started early, carrying away anything unfastened. As the rain bucketed down, Clarke stood anxiously at the window, peering out into the tumult.

“Have you seen Madi today?” she asked, biting her lip.

“No,” he said, tapping his foot restlessly. “I haven’t seen her for two days.”

“Maybe she found shelter in one of the other cabins?”

Bellamy nodded, his lips a thin line. Silence filled the cabin as they feigned interest in various tasks – peeling carrots, darning clothes, drying skins by the fire.

Suddenly, the sky flashed with lightening, before a violent crack of thunder rattled the windows. Glancing up in alarm, Clarke and Bellamy met gazes for a few seconds – then, without saying a word, they leapt to their feet, pulled on their boots and threw open the door.

“I’ll look in the cabins,” Clarke shouted over the thunder.

“I’ll look by the river.”

In panic, Bellamy found himself stumbling through the waterlogged woods. Leaves and branches struck his face, drawing blood. But all he could think about was the little girl alone in the storm. Dimly, he heard Clarke calling out for her. Another crack of thunder seemed to shake the very earth beneath his feet. Then, through the fury of the storm, he heard something that chilled him to his core: the sound of a sudden high-pitched scream.

“Bell?” Clarke shouted from the distance.

“I heard,” he shouted back. “It’s coming from the river.”

Never in his life had he run faster than that moment. His feet hardly impacted the ground as he flew to the river – already breaking its banks with rainwater. Chest heaving, Bellamy scanned the river. His heart sinking, he noticed her little fishing spear by the river.

“ _Bellomi_!”

His head whipped around. There, clinging desperately to a branch, was Madi being pulled by the relentless tide. She spluttered as water splashed over her head. When she caught sight of him, she reached up a thin pale arm for help.

“I’m coming,” he shouted, as he threw himself towards the water. Swimming he had learned by necessity when they came to the ground. But, he had never sum through such rapids before. Just as he reached her, her grip slipped and suddenly she was washing away from him.

“Madi!” he cried, before swimming as fast as he could down river. He stopped for a moment, searching desperately for her where the river bent.

Clarke’s voice broke him out of his reverie. “Bell, over there!”

Bellamy glanced up, surprised to find Clarke standing by the shore, pointing at a small eddy next to some rocks. Through the water, he could made out a small bundle of clothes.

Lungs burning, he swam with all his strength towards her. Scooping her head from the water, he clutched her light body under one arm, swimming against the force of the river to reach the bank.

Clarke was already knee deep, wading into the river to relieve him of the girl’s body. She dragged Madi to shore, placing her gently on the river-bank, already checking her vital signs.

Bellamy dragged himself onto the shore. Clarke shot him a look, scanning him for injuries, before turning back to Madi.

“Is she alright?” he croaked, his voice shaking. “Clarke, tell me she’s alright.”

“Madi,” Clarke said, her voice cracking with fear. “Madi, can you hear me?”

She pressed her ear to Madi’s mouth, listening for a sound of breath. Finding none, Clarke linked her fingers and pressed down on her chest, trying desperately to restart her heart, to breathe air into her lungs. Tears and raindrops mingled on his face as Clarke repeated the girl’s name over and over. Bellamy hunched over her, praying for a miracle – the sort of miracle that only Clarke could provide. She was absolutely focused on the task at hand.

But, Madi was as still as death. Bellamy watched her work, the same words circling in his head over and over: _Come on, Clarke. You can do this_.

Then, suddenly something in Madi’s body snapped into action, and she began coughing and spluttering. Turning to her side, she expelled the water from her lungs.

Shivering and crying, Madi threw her arms around Clarke’s neck. Bellamy watched as Clarke’s face crumpled and she clutched the girl to her chest. Unable to contain his relief, he threw his arms around both of them, desperate to form a protective barrier between them and any danger.

“It’s okay, little one,” Clarke said, softly, finding it impossible to loosen her grip around the shivering girl in her arms. She wrapped a hand behind Bellamy’s neck, pulling him closer. “You’re okay now.”

“We’re going to take care of you,” Bellamy said firmly, resting his forehead against Clarke’s. “We will always take care of you.”

And they did.

* * *

There was a chair in the living room of the cabin near the fire, where Bellamy usually sat when he told his stories. That afternoon, Clarke found herself curled up in his usual spot, wrapped in furs that smelled like him.

For six years she had never been far from his side, but still Clarke never tired of hearing him tell those stories of his. Somewhere along the way, his stories of the great heroes expanded to encompass their own friends and foes.

While Madi listened wide-eyed, he told stories about a girl once hidden under the floorboards who became the warrior who united the clans, he spoke of a brilliant mechanic, who could build anything from scratch, an artist who fought wars and fell in love with a girl from the sky, of battles and heartbreak, of friendship and love. Most of all of love. Love that can survive the end of the world.

But, still, her favourite stories were always about Murphy.

“I made her a list of all the times he tried to kill me,” Bellamy said one night in bed, his arm thrown over her side. “But I think it all just makes her like him more.”

“She likes an underdog,” Clarke grinned, pulling his arm across her more tightly. She wondered how it could be that she spent so many nights before sleeping without him by her side. It is unimaginable to her now. Even the small space between them, the particles of matter, the air that brought them life – she resented any distance between them.

Sometimes she woke up to find him watching her sleep. He would stare down at her with those blazing brown eyes of his and she would know without words exactly what thoughts crowded in his brain. Thoughts of near misses, of what might have been if he had climbed into that rocket. The lives they might have led, timelines brushing against their own. None of them acceptable because any change to this moment, this instant, this company would be impossible to bear.

But that night, she didn’t fear the thought of choices that might have pulled them in different directions. All she could think of was the warmth of his embrace, the feeling his breath on her neck, and the slumbering child in the next room, who insisted on sleeping next to the fishing rod Bellamy had made for her.

“I’m the underdog,” he protested. “She even likes Monty more than me.”

“Well Monty is adorable.”

“Am I not adorable?” he pouted.

She turned over to gaze at his face, his face smooth and his eyes free from the shadows that sometimes appeared when he recalled dark memories. She pressed her hand to his chest, smiling at the feeling of his heart speeding up.

“Adorable is one word I’d use,” she murmured, the familiar desire that never seemed to fade flashing down her spine.

His eyes darkened with desire. “What are some other words?”

Drifting away on the memory, she pulled the furs closer around her, enjoying the scent of Bellamy. The stories had been quieter over the past few months. Chosen more carefully. Madi listened even more closely, as if there might be some lesson in it that could chase away the fear that had fallen over the household.

Clarke had been determined to play down the sickness that gripped her without warning throughout the day, and Bellamy took it upon himself to shoulder the burden. He hid his fear in front of Madi, in front of Clarke herself. But some days when he held her hair back and she threw up, she could sense it rearing up within him. His life had been so full of loss, he always expected the worst.

When she first started getting sick, they sat together on the steps outside their cabin. She used a small knife to pierce the flesh of her palm. While the radiation levels had been safe for humans for more than a year, it was hard not to connect the sickness that gripped Clarke with the radiation they had been exposed to over the years. They watched silently as the blood that surfaced through her skin was still black, still protected.

“Still a nightblood,” she said softly.

“People get sick, Clarke,” Bellamy said with more confidence than he felt. “You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met. You’ll be fine.”

“Of course I’ll be fine. If I weren’t here, who would stitch up your wounds after one of your training sessions with Madi?”

She smiled at the recollection of Bellamy teaching her how to hold a blade. Her heart had been in her throat at the sight of Madi’s small frame holding the sword that Bellamy had salvaged from one of the empty, haunted houses that were left behind in the valley. But, she knew he was right. However perfect it was with the three of them alone in the world, things could always turn, challenges would always come. Madi would need to protect herself. Not that Bellamy would ever allow any harm to come to her.

Bellamy kissed her on her hairline and pulled her closer to him. “That’s right. You need to protect me from her surprise attacks.”

For all his brave words and reassurances to Madi, she could tell that he was fearful whenever he saw her grow faint, whenever she felt the nausea overpower her. Instead of starting the morning before dawn, determined to achieve as much as possible by sunset, Clarke found herself in the grips of exhaustion. Madi was being unusually quiet when she was in the cabin, sidling over to Clarke whenever she sat and laying her head on her shoulder.

Clarke shook her head and chuckled. If her suspicions were right, all that would be over soon. She felt a thrill of anticipation at the thought, excitement bubbling in her stomach. But, none of it would feel real until she told Bellamy.

“Clarke,” came a shout from outside. “Clarke!”

It was as if her thoughts had summoned him. With effort, she climbed to her feet and left the furs on the seat. Making her way to the door of the cabin, she called out in response to him.

From the doorway, she watched him bound across the clearing to her. He looked excited – and for a moment Clarke wondered if somehow he had divined the news that she thought might burst from her at any moment. But, as he approached and noticed her leaning her weight on the doorframe, he frowned. He hurried up the low steps leading to the door and wrapped his arm around her waist, until he was supporting her weight rather than the doorframe.

“You should be resting,” he murmured, pressing a tender kiss to her lips although they had been parted for less than an hour.

“I’m fine, Bell,” she said, allowing him to steer her back to the seat she had just vacated. As she sat down and let him arrange his furs around her to his satisfaction, kneeling at her feet. She bit her lip, hiding a smile. “Actually, I’m more than fine.”

He glanced up at her from his spot on the floor, his face looked oddly young in the light pouring through the window. Hope for her recovery smoothed out some of the worry lines that had formed over the past few months. “What do you mean? Are you feeling better?”

She smiled down at him, wondering what she did to deserve the love of such an extraordinary person. That morning she had awoken to find him gone, a small cluster of purple flowers on his empty pillow. _Heliotrope_ , her orderly scientific mind supplied as she snipped the flowers. Symbolising eternal love, murmured the part of her brain that prompted her to pick up a paintbrush and draw the lines of her beloved’s face.

It was exactly as he had promised all those years ago at the laboratory – each day he found a hundred ways to show her how much he loved her. She pressed her hand to his cheek and he turned his head to kiss her palm.

“I’m still nauseous,” she said carefully. “But, I think it’s going to improve in a few weeks.”

He cocked his head to the side as if trying to make sense of a puzzle. “Is it the radiation?”

“No,” she said softly. “At least I don’t think so.”

“I know the levels have been safe for a while, but we spent years on the ground after Praimfaya,” he said forcefully, his face set stubbornly the way it always was when he debated with her about her wellbeing. “We should do a transfusion just to be safe.”

“Bell, I think - ”

“I’m serious, Clarke,” he said, shaking his head. She could see him sinking into his own thoughts, hatching plans for how he would convince her to let him give her a transfusion.

“ _Bell_ ,” she said, placing both hands on her cheeks. “It’s not radiation. I think…I know it sounds crazy, but I think I’m pregnant.”

For a moment, Bellamy was absolutely still, his eyes wide with shock. Clarke noticed suddenly that the shadows of the room were shifting as the trees outside moved in the wind. It was as if their entire cabin was shifting, the world under their feet.

She was almost embarrassed that someone with her medical training would not think of the obvious answer the collection of symptoms she had until now. Growing up on the Ark with the chip in her arm that had been given to her at sixteen, she had assumed it was impossible for her to get pregnant. Then again, the chip had never been exposed to apocalyptic radiation and years of walking the face of an irradiated planet. It was only when she realised she was almost two months late that the dots finally connected. Now, in the face of Bellamy’s shock, she felt a prickle of anxiety.

“Pregnant?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“I’m not sure,” she said, looking down at her hands. “But I’m late - and with the nausea and fatigue, I think maybe the chip stopped working.”

“You’re pregnant,” he breathed, as if they were the only two words his mind was capable of forming. His face was perfectly blank.

Surely this was something he wanted, she reassured herself as he pressed a hand to his eyes. Bellamy, who could never meet a kid without wanting to protect him. He, who dedicated every moment he could to Madi, who sat up late stitching her warm jackets for the cold months, who set her hair in elaborate braids, and who, when she was younger, carried her on his back for a month when she cut her foot on jagged rocks.

But here he was, shielding his face from her, sitting silently at her feet.

“Please tell me this is something you want,” she said softly, wrapping her hand around the wrist of the hand that was pressed to his eyes.

At the sound of desperation in her voice, he pulled the hand away and looked at her in shock. He grasped both her hands, staring up at her with eyes shining with unshed tears. When he spoke, the emotion in his voice took her breath away.

“This is everything I have ever wanted,” he breathed. “You are everything I have ever wanted. I love you so much, Clarke. Every time I go to bed, I think: _This is it. This is as much as I can love anyone_. _It would be impossible to love someone more._ But then I wake up in the morning, look at you, and realise I love you even more.”

“So you’re happy?” she said, relief warming the pit in her stomach.

He laughed – a sound of pure joy - before surging up to wrap his arms around her and capture her lips. “Happy doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She laughed, before standing up and drawing him to his feet. Still laughing, he picked her up in his arms, spinning joyfully around the room.

“I could be wrong, you know,” she said gently, as he placed her back on the ground and peppered gentle kisses over the plane of her face. “If only my mom were here, maybe she could look at the chip and figure out if it really is broken. Or Raven.”

Clarke uttered the name softly. A year ago, they had waited watching the sky for any sign of their friends returning from space. They had begun to give up home of seeing their friends again.

Starting, Bellamy suddenly pulled back from the embrace.

“About that,” he said, a grin growing on his face. “I have some news of my own, Princess.”

* * *

“Were you really taken prisoner in Polis?” Madi asked, leaping easily over a log that blocked their progress through the thick foliage.

“Yes,” Murphy responded, rolling his eyes.

“And you were tortured?”

“Yes – and I never tire of being reminded of it.”

“And you really went on a quest to find the City of Light with the mad Chancellor?”

“Yes.”

“And you shot Raven?”

“Yep,” Raven chimed in with a wide grin.

“I apologised for that,” Murphy glowered.

From the moment they returned to the ship, Madi had peppered them with questions about the stories Bellamy and Clarke told her before bed each night.

“Oh well, as long as you apologised,” Raven retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. Then, she focused once more on their young guide. “So what did those idiots tell you about me, then?”

Madi turned around, walking backwards along the well-trodden path.

“That you’re a genius,” she said eagerly. “You can fix anything. And that you never back down from anyone.”

“Accurate,” Raven said.

“I just can’t believe they made it,” Monty said, shaking his head and helping Harper over the loose rocks.

“Of course they survived,” Madi said proudly. “Heroes always succeed on their quests.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Murphy snorted. “Bellamy cast himself as the hero in his bedtime stories.”

“He always says Clarke is the hero,” Madi said simply. “Though she tells me that he is the hero.”

Raven glanced at Monty, the memory of all their sacrifices still close to the surface.

“Accurate,” Monty said softly.

For a while they walked in silence, each soaking in the beauty of the place. The trees that strained up to the cloudless sky. The rich moss on the tree trunks. Everywhere the smell and signs of life.

“So about Bellamy and Clarke,” Raven said, her face splitting into a sly grin. “Is there anything going on there? I mean besides adopting a kid together.”

“Going on?” Madi asked, puzzled.

“You know,” Raven said, before doing a complex gesture in the air before her face.

“What the hell is that meant to be?” Murphy asked.

Raven reached out and shoved him into some bushes. “Are they together?”

“They are always together,” Madi said, as if she were a simpleton. “There’s no one else in the valley.”

“No, I mean,” Raven said, searching about for the words. “Are they _together_ together.”

“She’s asking if they’re doing it,” Murphy said, receiving another jab in the ribs from Raven for his troubles.

“She wants to know whether Bellamy and Clarke confessed their feelings for each other,” Echo said judiciously.

“All the time,” Madi said, rolling her eyes again. “It’s gross. You will see.”

“They were gross even before they admitted it,” Murphy chimed in, ducking out of the way of another elbow jab.

“We are close now,” Madi said.

She led them through a veil of vines and trees into a clearing. Three wooden cabins sat near the ring of trees, sturdy structures still standing despite the death wave. Near to the largest cabin, a neat vegetable garden thrived next to a chicken coup. The skeleton of another room was halfway through completion next to the cabin. Raven grinned at the image of Bellamy painstakingly building the room from wood he cut himself.

“ _Nomon, Nontu_ ,” Madi called. “I have brought your Sky Friends.”

It had taken years, but time had healed the wounds that the ground had left of them. Living together in space, with endless hours stretching before them, they knew there were feelings that should be put to rest for the sake of survival.

But as the door opened and Clarke and Bellamy emerged, the feelings came rushing back. They were each of them back on the rocket, watching Bellamy torn in two. Back to the moment he decided to follow after the girl who had sacrificed everything for them.

For a moment, they stared at the lost friends standing in front of them. Watched the way Clarke pressed her hands to her mouth, the tight grip of Bellamy’s hand on her shoulder. Took in the strong set of Bellamy’s shoulders, his longer hair, his softer eyes. Saw the gratitude and warmth in Clarke’s eyes, her back still straight and proud. There was a new openness in her expression, as if all the feelings she pressed down within herself were free at last.

They walked down the stairs of the house they lived in together. Moving as one. Even if Madi had not confirmed it for them, Raven would have known by looking at them that their old promise – _together_ \- had taken on new meaning.

Clarke and Raven locked eyes, and suddenly all the regrets, all the fear, all the impossible decisions came to the surface. Raven strode forward, moving faster than her brace should allow. Clarke met her halfway, throwing her arms around her old friend.

“You’re alive,” Raven sobbed into her shoulder. “I can’t believe you’re alive.”

“I can’t believe _you’re_ alive,” Clarke breathed, clasping her tight. Dimly in the background they were aware of Monty, Bellamy – and even Murphy – embracing. “You did it Raven. You saved them.”

“No,” she said, fruitlessly attempting to wipe her tears away. “ _You_ did it. You’re the reason we’re all standing here. I don’t know how to thank you, Clarke.”

“Well,” Clarke said softly, pulling back to regard her. “There is one thing I was hoping you could help us with.”

* * *

The sun was just kissing the top of the mountain that shielded the valley when they all gathered by the great blaze. A boar that Bellamy had hunted earlier that day cooked slowly over the fire, suspended on a strong wooden stick.

Madi had delighted in watching Bellamy and Monty impaling it, running around the clearing from Raven to Echo and back again, quizzing them on all they knew about science. Charmed by her exuberance, Raven found herself promising to talk her through the controls in the landing craft the very next day. Echo had already promised to teach her _Azgeda_ fighting tactics she could use to hoodwink Bellamy and – at Clarke’s urging – Emori was committed to expanding her Trig vocabulary.

It was only half an hour earlier, when Bellamy and Clarke had summoned Madi back into the cabin, that any of them had a moment to gather their thoughts.

“This is torture,” Muphy moaned, eyeing the crisp skin of the boar. “I haven’t had a decent meal in six years.”

“That’s not true,” Harper said loyally, squeezing Monty’s hand.

“The smell of that boar is reminding me it probably _is_ true,” Monty said, taking a deep breath.

“I’ve missed the smell of the ground,” Emori said dreamily, running her hand through the dirt at her feet. “Drawing breath that smells like flowers.”

“I’ve missed sunsets,” Harper said dreamily, gazing up at the sky struck orange and red.

Raven leaned back on the log, her elbow brushing against Echo’s leg. She had been quiet for the past few hours, lost in thought, distracted. Echo had noticed, but knew better than to force her to talk bout how she was feeling. Raven could never be hurried into anything.

Earlier that day, she had found Clarke gathering apples for their dinner. Echo remembered keenly the time she had stood in Polis with her sword to Clarke’s throat. She remembered just as keenly the way it had been Clarke who had insisted on her joining them on the rocket.

“You have a beautiful garden,” Echo commented.

“It’s a team effort,” Clarke had responded. “We feel responsible for this valley. It survived so much. Like all of us, I suppose.”

“And none more than you,” Echo said, drawing alongside Clarke and relieving her of her basket.

“We all have our scars. I’ve been lucky in so many ways.”

“I can see that. You have a beautiful family.”

Clarke nodded tightly, visibly moved by the woman’s words. For a while they worked in silence, Clarke pulling the fruit from the branches over her head and Echo gathering the spoils in the wicker basket. “I have wanted to thank you, Clarke.”

Clarke glanced at her in surprise. “For what?”

“You saved my life, Clarke. You are the reason I did not die here, in exile. There is a debt between us.”

Clarke shook her head. “Raven told me you helped her. Looking after them. Keeping them focused. That makes you family, too. You don’t have to thank me for anything. The debt is repaid.”

It was Echo’s turn to nod, her throat tight. They returned to the others without comment. The afternoon had past in a blur, filled with laughter and tears. A successful hunt. Echo recalled the celebration after a hard fought battle. Warm memories of cold nights at home returned to her as she gazed into the fire.

She was shaken from her reverie by the sound of a door opening, and the energetic steps of Madi returning once more to the ring of light. She was brimming with excitement, unable to sit still for a moment as Bellamy and Clarke returned to group. They walked slowly, hands joined, sharing secretive looks. With care, Bellamy led Clarke to a log, planting a kiss on her lips before examining the boar with his hands on his hips.

“You were right, kid,” Murphy said in a loud stage whisper. “They _are_ gross.”

“You’re just jealous,” Raven commented.

“Please,” Muprhy scoffed before calling across the fire. “No offence, Clarke, but you’re not my type.”

“I’ll try to live with the disappointment,” Clarke said wryly.

Raven shot him a grin. “I meant you were jealous of Clarke.”

“Murphy,” Bellamy grinned. “I had no idea you felt that way about me.”

“I should have stayed on the ring,” Murphy muttered darkly.

“Come on, Murphy," Bellamy cajoled. "You missed us. Admit it.”

There was a beat of silence, before Murphy turned his gaze to the flames. “Yeah. I did.”

Surprised, Bellamy and Clarke exchanged another one of their secret looks, communicating without words. When Bellamy raised his eyebrows, Clarke offered him a minute nod.

“Well, we’re glad you’re back,” he said warmly, turning to face them. Clarke smiled at the sight of him in his element, at the centre of attention. “All of you. Tonight is about family - the family we found, the family we choose. The ground has taken a lot from us, but it’s also given us as much as it has taken away. The ground gave me Clarke, Madi and all of you. From the day we landed on the ground together, we became family. And now that family is growing once more.”

Raven leaned forward in her seat, her face splitting into a grin. Bellamy reached out a hand to Clarke, tugging her to her feet and wrapping his arm around her middle. At the sight of them, Harper sighed and rested her head on Monty’s shoulder.

“We’re so glad to have you here tonight,” Clarke said, tearing her gaze away from Bellamy and looking at each of them. “Because Bellamy and I wanted to tell you that - ”

“We’re having a baby,” Madi interrupted excitedly.

Raven chuckled as the rest of the group stared at Bellamy and Clarke in shock.

“What?” Harper breathed.

“I’m pregnant,” Clarke said, before glancing at Bellamy. “We’re pregnant.”

Murphy blinked at her. “You are having baby? You and Bellamy?”

“That's what pregnant means,” Madi said, before turning to face Bellamy. “You made him sound smarter in your stories.”

“That was unintentional,” Bellamy responded. 

“How is it possible?” Harper asked. “Your chip...”

“Fried by the radiation,” Raven commented. “I took a look at it this afternoon in exchange for Clarke promising to make me godmother.”

“Which leaves godfather wide open,” Murphy commented, eyeing Monty competitively.

“You’re not godfather material,” Emori sniped. “A godfather should be a responsible adult.”

“The kid’s aunt will be Octavia. The 'responsible adult' bar is not that high.”

At the mention of Octavia, their eyes turned once more to Bellamy. His euphoric expression had dimmed slightly at the mention of his sister.

“We’ll get her back,” Clarke said, squeezing his arm. “We’ll find a way. We’ll get her and my mom out of that bunker.”

“And Miller,” Harper said speculatively. “Now Nate would be a strong godfather contender.”

“Is it too late to pretend we died in Praimfaya?” Bellamy whispered into Clarke’s ear in an undertone.

“I think they might be onto us,” she laughed.

“Well then,” Bellamy announced, turning back to the boar. “Let’s eat.”

A cheer erupted in the group as Bellamy sliced into the boar meat. Laughter pierced the night, voices overlapping, sharing stories about the sky, the ground, and all the years gone by. Clarke stared at Bellamy, watching the way his eyes lit up as he told grand stories, Madi interrupting with her own input every now and again.

“You know I want to hear the whole story,” Raven said softly, leaning over to Clarke as the conversation turned to the worst algae meals prepared by Monty. “You and Bellamy and everything that happened here.”

“Only if you promise to tell me what’s going on with you and Echo,” Clarke said slyly.

Raven followed her gaze across the fire. Echo stood next to Madi, miming one of her many triumphant battles.

“I’ll tell you as soon as I figure it out myself,” she said, before shaking her head. “I buried you and Bellamy earlier, you know. Pictures of you at least. From the Ring. And the Madi appeared. For years I thought you and Bellamy were dead, but you were here together the whole time. Being parents. Building a life together. And now you’re having a baby. You seem happy. Both of you.”

“It took a long time for us to accept that we were allowed to be happy,” Clarke said contemplatively. “It was a gift, this time together. Now you have time, too. And you deserve all the happiness in the world.”

Raven nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Across the fire, Bellamy glanced over at them, offering Clarke a wink.

“I always wondered how you never seemed to notice how crazy he was about you,” Raven commented, recovering her voice. "Subtlety is not exactly his strong suit."

“I noticed everything about him,” Clarke said, shaking her head at the recollection. “I could hardly tear my eyes away from him. But I think I knew back that if I let myself fall in love with him I would never stop.”

“Does it scare you?”

“It used to. But it doesn’t anymore.”

“Why is that?”

Clarke turned her light blue gaze on Raven. She had forgotten how serious Clarke could be, how carefully she listened. This was a woman who had made impossible choices over and over again. “Falling isn’t as scary when there’s someone there to catch you.”

“God you’ve become sentimental,” Raven laughed, nudging her shoulder to Clarke. “You make me want to throw-up.”

“I know,” Clarke said, offering her a toothy grin. “He’s made me a complete romantic. I’m glad you’re back to reign me in.”

The fire dwindled to nothing as they sprawled themselves over the ground, their stomachs full. One by one they succumbed to slumber, unwilling to leave the warm circle they had created, wanted to preserve this one perfect moment.

At last, only Bellamy and Clarke remained awake. Around them, their friends dozed under the full moon. They would need to clear out some of the other cabins to make more permanent beds. They would need to get organised, to build, to figure out a way to open the bunker. There were lists to make and plans to hatch.

“I can hear you thinking, Clarke,” Bellamy commented. Leaning against his chest, she could feel his voice rumbling through his chest – slightly hoarse after a night of story-telling.

“Just making plans,” she said, with a smile.

“You need to start taking it easy,” he said seriously.

“I’m pregnant, Bell. I’m not sick.”

“I’m not taking any chances. Not with you.”

She chuckled, well aware this would not be the last time she and Bellamy disagreed about the extent to which she should push herself. Just like she knew he would not let himself sleep properly until the day their child was born.

It would be just like the time when Madi ate the berries that made her throw-up for two days straight. Clarke remembered those long nights with a shudder; for hours she had set next to her, soothing her back and brushing her hair. Murmuring nonsense words her mother had once said to her. On the second of those feverish nights, Madi had called her _nomon_ for the first time. Asking her not to leave – as if Clarke would have considered that for a moment.

For a week after she had fully recovered, Bellamy kept watch over her bed – determined to make sure she was still breathing. Opening the bunker was definitely priority number one; she would need Octavia’s help to convince him to take a break from protecting their family.

Before them the fire cracked and hissed in the cool night sky, embers flaring and disappearing into the darkness. Clarke sat nestled between Bellamy’s legs, his strong arms wrapped around her. On the ground next to them, covered by Bellamy’s furs, Madi murmured about fishing in her sleep. Idly, Clarke stroked her hand through Madi’s hair.

“What are you thinking about now?” Bellamy asked, his lips pressed against her neck and his hand resting gently on the surface of her stomach. From somewhere deep inside, Clarke felt a pull towards him, as if the child they had created together recognised his touch.

Clarke relaxed back into his arms and pressed her hands over his. “I’m thinking about what you said about everything the ground has given us. Everything it’s given me. You. Madi. Our home, this valley, all our friends. Sometimes it doesn’t seem fair that I should get to have this much happiness.”

“You’ve made me happier than I ever thought possible,” he murmured. “You and Madi.”

“Do you think she’ll like being a big sister?” Clarke wondered aloud, still carting her fingers through the girl’s hair – curled and unruly like Bellamy’s. Sometimes she forgot that Madi was not their own child.

“She’ll be a natural,” Bellamy said, pulling the furs more securely over her sleeping form.

“After all, she takes after you,” Clarke whispered.

Bellamy chuckled. “Did you see the way she put Murphy in his place? That was all you.”

“We’re a good team,” Clarke said.

“She called me _nontu_ today,” he whispered, as if afraid the others would hear.

“Of course she did,” Clarke said, squeezing his hand. “From the minute we found her, we were her parents. You’re her father, Bellamy; she loves you.”

“And you’re an incredible mother,” he said, before falling silent and fixing his stare on the fire as the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. 

Clarke smiled, before peering up at him, admiring the patterns the fire made on his skin. “And what are _you_ thinking about, my love?”

Bellamy sighed contentedly. “Tomorrow, Princess. I’m thinking about tomorrow.”[2]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for joining me on this journey and for your words of encouragement. I wrote this story as a sort of fix-it, intended originally for my eyes only. But, I am so glad to be part of this community. I hope you enjoyed the ride. 
> 
> [1] I took some of these Trig expressions from this online dictionary: https://trigedasleng.net/dictionary/noncanon. I thought it was important to use some Trig to reinforce the language barrier between Bellamy, Clarke and Madi in the early days. 
> 
> [2] I stole the general vibe of this final line from The West Wing.


End file.
